


Fate, Change, Debt

by Unified Multiversal Theory (nightgigjo)



Series: Unified Multiversal Theory [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Auror Ron Weasley, Background Character Death, Background Femslash, Background Relationships, Gen, HP: EWE, Healer Harry, Loki Has Issues, No Smut, Not Epilogue Compliant, Post Hogwarts AU, Powerful Hermione, Pre-Epilogue, Quidditch Player Ginny Weasley, Sirius Black Lives
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-01
Updated: 2017-10-27
Packaged: 2018-05-17 15:49:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 55,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5876665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightgigjo/pseuds/Unified%20Multiversal%20Theory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The fates have not been kind to this spoiled princeling - but then again, they ARE trying to teach him a lesson.<br/>---<br/>Updating (roughly) once per month, in hopes of building a buffer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Path

**Author's Note:**

> Quick note on content: I do not write very racy stuff. I don’t really gravitate towards pairings, either. There may eventually be some pairings, but they 1) might not be permanent and 2) have not yet revealed themselves to me. If I rate a fic M, it is for dealing with hard issues, and I will endeavor to list any content warnings at the outset of each relevant chapter.
> 
> I welcome your comments, suggestions, and questions! Come find me at unified-multiversal-theory.tumblr.com and say hi, if you like.

* * *

_Thence come the maidens mighty in wisdom,_  
_Three from the dwelling down 'neath the tree;_  
_Urth is one named, Verthandi the next,--_  
_On the wood they scored,-- and Skuld the third._  
_Laws they made there, and life allotted_  
_To the sons of men, and set their fates._  
(“Völuspá [The Prophecy of the Seeress]”, from the _Poetic Edda_ )

* * *

Three robed figures sat in the shade, gazing into the still waters at the foot of the great ash. The tree, Yggdrasil, stretched forth throughout the heavens, connecting the Nine Realms, and these women, the Nornir, tended it, while weaving the destinies of men and gods alike.

There were dappled reflections on the pool, not of leaves and the canopy above, but of worlds, of lives. The one most central in their view belonged to a pale, raven-haired youth, twice-royal son of a king, daughter of a queen, rival to a prince. Troubled. Troublesome.

The oldest of them pointed, and one small life at the edge of the water came forward easily, willingly, and placed itself next to the one they'd been studying. This image was curious, open, steady.

 _Yes_ , they nodded. _Fulcrum_.  

The youngest among them indicated another: it was shimmering, brightness both magnified and obscured. It drifted, serene and purposeful, not once faltering in its direction.

 _Yes_ , they nodded. _Impetus_.

The third considered long, before adding another life. She knew, perhaps better than the others, that her choice would seal all, that each of the others would be distinctly, irrevocably changed. Then she noticed an image, quiet and dark, intent and watchful. It was sending out pale, glowing tendrils, touching other images, cautiously, as though to discover their shape or meaning. She looked at the life inquiringly, and it pulsed gently, curious, silvery bright threads reaching out to the constellation the three were creating. It turned its attention to the third robed figure.

 _Yes_ , it pulsed. _Catalyst_ .  


* * *

**Chapter One: The Path**

In the guise of a young soldier, Loki paused to look out over Asgard, in the last moments of sunset. The sun was fading, but the moons were already high and bright, and the city below him glowed with the fires of feasting, revelry, and raucous ribaldry that was the hallmark of victory to these people. His people, once. But they had ceased their mourning after the minimum nine days, although the passing of a prince demanded much more.

Then there had been another victory in 'glorious' battle, paltry by anyone's standards, and not much worth celebrating. His brother, certainly, would be there. He was a great one for carousing, when he wasn't moping after that... _Midgardian_. The face of the ‘soldier’ flickered briefly, bronzed skin waxing pale, though most might have assumed it a trick of the moonlight. Loki’s mind left off the topic of unsatisfactory relatives, and concentrated instead on the task at hand. He was on the watchtower, the best vantage point in the realm, and the time was rapidly approaching.

As the last vestiges of sunlight faded, leaving the velvet night overhead, the soldier took one last look at the place that had been his home. He had an appointment to keep.

Resolutely, he turned his back on his adoptive homeland, walked purposefully across the tower platform, turned a corner, and vanished.

The glamour dropped the moment Loki stepped through the hidden portal. There was no need to disguise his identity here - even Heimdall couldn’t see into these little recesses in the fabric of reality. They were very like the curtained alcoves provided for lovers’ trysts - narrow, shadowed, and perfectly suited for all manner of clandestine dealings, ever concealing goings-on from a prying eye.

They also connected to a number of tenuous pathways between the realms. He’d made use of these numerous times - to make his way to Jotunheim and the Svartalfar, and to take himself off whenever deals went sour.

That had been happening rather too much for Loki’s taste - so often thanks to the traveling freak show calling themselves the ‘Avengers’ - but this time he’d managed to escape their notice as well.

His brother’s show of mourning had been quite spectacular - simultaneously intense, brooding, and poised - a true prince of Asgard, behaving exactly as the masses of Asgardians expected. Loki had never believed for an instant that looking the part would make Thor worthy, or able, to rule. But that was the way Asgardians thought. Give them a blue-eyed golden idol, and they’d bow down and worship. It didn’t matter if their leaders _were_ honest and forthright, as long as they _appeared_ to be.

Well, Loki knew quite a lot about keeping up appearances.

He walked quickly to the shallow end of the alcove, gently extending a pale, delicate hand until the tips of his fingers brushed the edges of the next portal through. The sensation was much like running one’s hands over an ancient inscription, save that the slivers of reality had the feel of various metals, rather than wood or stone.

The one leading to the Chitauri homeworld slithered. Loki shuddered, hoping he hadn’t been noticed. As the archer had observed: doors can open from both sides.

The sleek sensation of his chosen corridor passed under his touch, and Loki’s habitual smirk widened into a toothy grin. This path would take him in the direction he needed to make contact with his...appointment. And it might be nice, Loki reflected, to drop in on the only one of his children who could - and would - speak to him.

With images of his eventual triumph clear in his mind, he stepped forward into blackness.

 

* * *

 

The three gazed over the shimmering waters at the destiny they had woven for the young prince. As they watched, the constellation became clouded with the activity of smaller creatures, like midges swarming at dusk.

 _They come_ , the third one intoned, _for the debt that is owed_. The others nodded understanding.

 _He will pay_ , said the first, _but not in the currency of their choosing_.

 

* * *

 

The golden crest of a helm glinted in the pale light, as the hulking reptilian form lifted its head. Tracking the errant, arrogant prince had been ridiculously easy - no one else in Asgard possessed such strong ability, and the peculiar quality of Loki’s heritage made his every move stand out: the crackling electricity of a Jotunn that nevertheless left the echoing hum of Asgardian magic in its wake.  The moment his hand had brushed the outer reaches of their realm, their reality, Loki had given away his position, and his purpose, to his unrealized, unforgiving enemy.

Loki had not, contrary to reports, been directly responsible for the decimation of the Chitauri forces - her forces - but the hubris of Laufey’s runt had been the cause of their slaughter at the hands of a thoroughly inferior foe. One shot had wiped out most of the warrior drones, and a number of the more capable soldiers. The few survivors had limped back to their homeworld, ship damaged beyond salvage, and the energy emanating from the scorched and fractured hull had brought sickness and death to countless others of their race before the source of the disease had been discerned, and a force field erected around the entirety of the wreckage to contain the worst of the contagion.

The numbers of the Chitauri were diminished, but their rage had intensified. Where once they would have relied on strength to overwhelm their foe, they were forced now to forge a new plan of attack, one of stealth and cunning. The adoptive Asgardian had always had friends, or at least reinforcements, preferring the cowardly use of magic or retreat, rather than risk death in open battle.

She had learned much, watching Loki work. She would give him that death using his own weapons - stealth, deception, slow-working poison. It would be a genuine pleasure to watch, to beat him at his own games.

Sitting alone in her chamber, she motioned to her door-guard to enter.  He dropped his gaze, as was proper, before approaching her presence.

“Mistress,” he rumbled, kneeling.

She leaned down to place a scaly finger under the soldier’s chin, drawing his gaze up to meet hers. “You will need an upgrade” she said, placing in his upraised palm a small glistening creature, like a metallic millipede, which coiled itself onto the flat of the soldier’s hand and integrated its circuitry into his own.

“Go,” she said, casting into his mind Loki’s image. “Hunt your quarry.” The newly-minted assassin nodded, eyes glinting with a blue fire as the upgrade reprogrammed his cybernetic components to prepare him for the task she had set.

 

* * *

 

Gaining entrance to the trail he sought was precisely like opening a book with thick, velvet curtains for pages. Loki let the folds fall shut behind him, and wended his way along a twisting corridor.  The passage was just tall enough for him to walk, and only slightly more wide than his narrow form. Where the Bifrost was sleek, sparkling with the reflections of numerous stars, this path was dark, littered with jutting corners and edges, more rough-hewn obsidian than polished opal.

The whole of reality was crazed with cracks such as this, and yet no one of Asgard knew of their existence, let alone traversed them as often as he did. They were his secret, yet another way in which the mind of Loki outstripped those of the boring, boorish kin with whom he’d been cursed. It had taken years to even find them, and a full century of walking to know them all. They had never bothered to wonder if such paths even existed, and they had the audacity to call him lazy.

The defile gradually widened, until it joined a larger corridor, one that would eventually connect to a well-traveled way that was forbidden to Heimdall’s sight. A guardian among the living had no business with the paths of the dead.

Loki, however, had something of a special dispensation - at least if he went to see his daughter.

As he climbed down into the smoothed, worn passage, something niggled at the back of his mind, the minutest of vibrations on spider-silk, telling him that he was watched. It could very well be his daughter’s attention on him, he mused. He was, after all, entering her territory. Loki sought to push the premonition aside, but a hint of doubt lingered, undermining the magician’s confidence. With a glint of worry in his eyes, Loki slowed his progress, pacing more deliberately as he stepped on the wider way, to Hel.

  


* * *

 

The soldier didn’t once consider what was to happen to him, once the mission was completed.  It would only distract from the task at hand.

He followed the slim, pale figure as he threaded his way through the secondary passage, while the upgrade formulated the necessary tactics for his mission. The soldier, formerly a straightforward being, was downloading an education in stealth and deception, and the remainder of his conscious mind was impressed. Before, he would have been baffled by such suggestions, and the fact that the upgrade’s parameters did not seem to include killing his target.

Indeed, his mind considered, he would have named the feeble, scaleless Asgardian _prey_.

The upgrade’s probability algorithm completed its calculations just as his quarry stepped into the wider passage and dropped into a crouch. The soldier felt a sharp pain in his left arm, and stared as he watched a tube-like metallic ridge forming on the surface of his cybernetic exoskeleton.  His arm wrenched around, rigid and perfectly straight, until his hand, fingers splayed, was level with the kneeling figure’s head, flattened palm directed at the base of the pale man’s spine. The Chitauri felt a surge of power run through his body, coursing from the tips of every extremity except the motionless hand. The energy pulsed as it reached his immobile left forearm, centering just below the medial joint. The upgrade mechanism, which had couched itself in his palm, began to glow slightly green, slithered between the armored plates at his wrist, and burrowed its way to the nexus of energy at his elbow. The hand, he saw, was shrinking, warping, falling away.

Time distorted and slowed as the soldier watched, blinked in disbelief, as he was drained of the last of his life-force, and a cybernetic projectile emerged from his hand.

 

* * *

 

The way of the dead smelled like a grave: cold, earthen walls crumbling; floor betraying no footstep. Loki’s senses pricked again, as soon as his foot touched the dark and moulding passageway. This time he was certain; it was his daughter’s mind, alert to his presence, harsh and forbidding as ever. Her voice came into his mind without form, giving him her words without sound.

_Do you dare tread the paths of the dead?_

Loki crouched on the ground, steadied his mind, shutting out all sense of his surroundings. _I seek passage through Helheimr, and audience with my daughter._

 _So,_ the voice replied, _you remember your kin, now that the time of trial is begun?_

Disconcerted, Loki hesitated. He had come so far, and complete triumph was almost in his hand. _But_ , his thoughts shakily betrayed him, _my plans are nearly come to fruition._

 _There are...other plans,_ she said, faltering. _I will not see you._

Loki was incensed. _What?_ _I am your kin. I am your father!_

The voice that replied was faint, weary. _It is,_ she said sadly, _not by my command._

Loki saw, then, in his mind, a vision of three Jotunn maidens, tending Yggdrasil, the Worlds Tree, weaving the fates of men, and of gods.

 _Nornir,_ he said, voice cracking in sudden terror.

The connection broke, and Loki’s sense of his surroundings rushed to the fore.  Instinctively he spun on his heel, just as a slight _click_ sounded behind him.

A sharp pain in his side brought him back to his knees. He felt as though he’d been shot, not by an arrow, but by some kind of living thing. Whatever it was, it pierced his side, slowed, but did not stop. Whatever it was did not rely on mere momentum to do its damage.

Loki stared, disbelieving, at the horror from which that wretched projectile had emerged.  What once must have been a formidable Chitauri warrior was rapidly decomposing from the outside in, limbs, head, torso crumbling as he watched. In seconds, all that remained was a hollow metallic tube less than a meter long, glowing green and emitting a low, steady hum.

Horrified, Loki tried again to stand, to flee, stumbling over his feet as he backed away from the remains of his supposed assassin. A strange impulse overtook him, to walk toward the heap of dust, to pick up the gleaming metal tube instead.  He stood for a moment, motionless, mind and body at war, the one urging retreat, and the other heeding some unknown order to advance.

_The three stood, watching. The first leaned over the pool, placing a finger on the surface of the water below Loki’s image. The water trembled, and began to swirl. The vortex was no larger than a pinprick, but the speck at its epicenter was the purple-black of deep space._

A smooth, glittering tunnel opened behind the magician, but Loki did not see it. Mastery over his own body consumed all of his concentration, his will bent on overpowering this unseen force that strove to make him its puppet.  A corner of his mind mocked his efforts to resist this enslavement, reminded him that he was already similarly obliged, bound to a master who would not hesitate to punish him, severely, should he fail in his current endeavour.

 _NO_ , the rest of his mind screamed, _I would rather DIE._

The sudden jolt of terror broke the stalemate. Fear and panic drew up unknown reserves of will, and with the last of his ebbing strength, Loki forced his unwilling feet backward. The rent in the fabric in the universe drew him in, and he fell into darkness.


	2. Strays

The dog's claws scrabbled and scraped on the surface of the tunnel - more a chute, really - as he slid downwards through the starry blackness. The outline of another figure bumping along just ahead was occasionally outlined against the dim glow. The being’s body flopped, as though injured or insensible. The shape of it said  _ Man _ . The scent of it said  _ Wizard _ . What else the dog’s nose was picking up - something flint and frost - was thoroughly confusing, but canine interest and human compassion weren't too far apart, in this case.

The tunnel branched ahead of them, and the prone being jolted down and to the left. The dog followed, sliding along in utter silence. He tried to catch up to the falling body, but it was impossible to go faster without losing control.

For an age, they fell and followed, in that timeless place. 

Then, abruptly, it was over, and the dog fell into something yielding and crackling. He opened his eyes on a canopy of trees, bare branches glistening in slanting sunlight. The dog sat up, shook himself, and sneezed. He discovered, to his canine delight, that he had landed in a drift of dried leaves. He rolled over and wriggled in the leaves, tongue lolling in pure joy.

_ It might not be my world _ , he thought,  _ but it feels like it. It feels like home. _

Then he caught the scent again. It was a blast of wintry cold, mixed with the smell of magic. The black dog followed his nose a dozen meters through a copse of spindly trees, finally stopping to sniff a bundle of black cloth in another pile of leaves. The cloth was wrapped around a body, which had a long mane of dark hair, and a thin face - pale, chilled, eyes closed. The dog sat back on his haunches, looking about him. The bundle of cloth sighed a split second later.

A shaggy-coated foot pawed at the stirring body, and the dog gave the man’s face an experimental lick. It tasted...alive, but cold. The eyes on the face opened to reveal light eyes, glassy and disoriented, but in an instant they focused, sharp and piercing. "What," the face said, voice quavering slightly, "what..."

The man tried to push himself up into a sitting position, but was unable to keep himself upright. The dog slid his broad back under the near arm and sat down, letting the dark-haired figure slump over onto him for support. At first he held on, then shrugged the dog off, and tried to struggle to his feet. He made it halfway up again before he fell, landed on all fours, and heaved. 

_ This man isn't going to die, _ he thought,  _ but he's still in trouble. _ The dog waited patiently for him to finish being sick, and when the man raised his head again, the creature gave a sharp bark, and thumped his tail. The man looked at him quizzically, then shook his head. He paled again at the motion, but kept control of himself this time, and managed to hoist himself onto his feet. Swaying slightly, he gave the dog a disdainful look, and staggered away.

There was no reason for him to waste time helping this young man, who obviously didn't want any. But he was intrigued by the man's strange scent: powder snow and mountain heights and the electrical tang of magic.

Whoever this fellow was, he was magical, and he was  _ injured. _ He let out a snuffling, dog-version of a sigh, and trotted briskly after the stumbling figure.

 

* * *

 

Maintaining consciousness was more difficult now than Loki had ever found it. Even in the aftermath of the fiercest battles, or the most profound tortures, he'd been able to keep his head, or at least shelter part of his mind from the onslaught of fatigue and despair.

Now, simply remaining upright and stationary took all the efforts of his not-insignificant will. Something - whatever it was that had felled him in the tunnels before Helheimr - was battling for control of his body, as well as diverting all reserves of his strength to its own purpose.

The thing itself seemed bewildered as to what that purpose actually was. The parasite had gained control over much of his body, and seemed to be concentrating on his legs and feet.  He staggered about, stiff-legged, lower limbs carrying the rest of him along with every step he couldn't countermand.   Loki could briefly regain control, but if he dropped his guard in the slightest, he was spun about, as his feet headed off into a completely different direction. 

This exasperating, erratic foolishness, as much as anything, fueled his rebellion against it.  He could sense the projectile as it slowly wormed its way through his searing flesh, headed apparently for his spine. There was an uncomfortable thought. It had that much control over him already, and it wasn't yet attached to anything vital.

He thought to catch hold of it, and fling it away with magic, or cause it to disintegrate, or find another host, but no power gathered around the spells. In desperation, he tried to make a grab for a stick, sharp rock, anything with which he might  _ dig _ the blasted thing out, but his fingers only twitched slightly, his arms refusing direction.

Nearly delirious with fatigue, he had all but forgotten the huge black animal trotting steadily behind him. Although he'd cursed it, ignored it, even thrown a stone or two in frustration, still it shadowed him. It kept its distance, to be sure, but it was always attentive to him, and never very far.

As another lurching step propelled Loki forward, he collided with some sort of invisible barrier and fell abruptly onto the packed earth.  The creature was on him in an instant, glistening nose prodding him gently to  _ get up _ . Loki shook his head in puzzlement as the thought dropped unbidden into his mind, and struggled again to his feet.

Loki turned to examine the creature. He wondered briefly if this was one of Fenrir’s get - the idea of rescue at the hands of a grand- or great-grandchild was wryly amusing. The creature certainly was large enough to pass for a dire wolf. Its eyes, a silvery blue, looked at him straight on for a moment, then began to paw at the ground near Loki's feet.  It was then that Loki realized that his legs had stopped moving of their own accord. They seemed  _ content _ to be here.

He looked down to where the wolf-creature was digging, and saw the trace of magic just under the drifted leaves. It was a delicate thread, as spider silk under the dry brush, or a line of mould in a decaying tree.  The magician followed the magic upwards from the forest floor, and began to examine the barrier in earnest. It wasn't invisible, but he doubted any but a powerful mage like himself could have seen it. There was a slight golden shimmer, which might seem, to any lesser being, to be sunlight streaming through a break in the canopy. Except that sunbeams didn't curve. 

The wolf-creature was sniffing around the edges of the enchantment, and at once looked up excitedly at Loki, wagging its shaggy black tail. It looked  _ happy _ , of all things.

Loki stretched out an ivory hand, and cautiously brushed the barrier with his fingertips. The resulting surge of magic that knocked him back to the ground was some of the purest, most electrifying he'd ever felt. It coursed through him in a torrent of power, then flashed back through the barrier and away into the distance.

It had...examined him. Someone very powerful would very soon know where he was - and have a clear idea of his weakened condition.

Loki had never been keen on confrontation, particularly when his opponent had him at this much of a disadvantage. Taking caution to be the better part of valor, the magician threw a quick glance around, and, seeing no one, started to walk away.  As though stuck in a bog, his feet refused to budge. Whether he attempted to saunter, amble, or sprint, no matter how Loki tried to move himself, he failed. He couldn't even take his feet out of his boots. 

His panic only increased at the sight of a hooded and cloaked figure striding through the wood towards him. In desperation, Loki looked appealingly at the wolf-creature, who was watching the approaching figure expectantly.

_ Wonderful _ , he thought despairingly.  _ This is just what I need. _

The wolf looked at him sharply, head slightly cocked, and gave a small half-bark.  _ Yes _ , it said.

The reassurances of a telepathic animal held precious little comfort for the prince, as he continued his futile struggle against the entropy of his lower limbs. As the figure neared, he gave one final burst of will, and one heel slid away from the barrier. With a sneer of haughty triumph on his face, Loki staggered backward, but the black wolf rushed behind him and stood, bristled and snarling.  He was so startled by the creature's change of temper that as he spun to face the growling beast, he pitched over and landed, for the third time, flat on his back.  

Between the impact of his head on the hard earth, and the parasite leeching the last of his strength, all Loki saw, before surrendering to oblivion, were a few wisps of dark hair framing a sun-darkened face.

 

* * *

 

Hermione stared at the fallen man. When she'd seen him standing, he had looked lean, but not gaunt, with skin the color of ivory and long, shining black hair. The face was sunken now, as someone close to starvation. His hair, too, was growing unkempt and tangled, although he hadn't moved at all since he hit the ground. As she watched, his color drained, not to the dull grey of a corpse, but to a pale, icy blue. Lines were appearing, too, on his face, raised like welts, not inflamed or red, but in the same frosty hue. A pattern emerged, markings resembling ritual tattoos, or the ridges on a dragon's skull. Whatever magic had made him look human, it was leaving him.

She felt for the flow of any magic around her, and felt only her own. Nothing was escaping the being's body, except the blood seeping from underneath the leather jerkin he wore.

It was then that she spotted the dog.

It loped out from under the undergrowth, where it had hidden after the man fell. A huge, black dog, almost wolf-like, with piercing blue eyes.

_ Snuffles. _

Hermione looked at the animal for some time before she spoke. The resemblance was uncanny. Impossible as it was, this creature looked so much like Sirius had in his Animagus form that she was too unnerved to make a sound. She crouched low to the ground, offering an outstretched hand for the dog to sniff. It approached incautiously and sat down in front of her, prodding the

proffered hand with its wet nose. Automatically, Hermione ran her palm over the dog's snout to the back of its head, giving it a good scratch behind the ears.

Underneath the sleek fur, she felt the tingle of magic.

The dog looked up at her and winked.

Hermione cocked an eyebrow.  "Look, I don't know if you are who I think you are, but we need to take care of this friend of yours."  The dog thumped its tail on the ground, stood on its feet, and waited attentively.

"Well then," Hermione said, rising, "let's get on with it, shall we?"

She reached out with her senses, but felt no human presence in the area, wizard or Muggle. Hermione cursed herself for a soft-hearted fool, very carefully levitated the body, and carried it through the wards, back home, with the large black dog following a few steps behind.

 


	3. Transformation

Loki awoke to the smell of wood smoke. His eyes shot open, and immediately he felt at his belt for his dagger. What met his hand was a layer of soft gauze. He frowned at the bandage, and started to sit up.

"I shouldn't get up yet, if I were you," came a voice from somewhere nearby. "I didn't know what you were, so I only bound up your wound."

Loki's frown deepened.  "What I am?" he queried.

"You looked human at first, but then," the voice said, "you changed." A face came into view as a young woman knelt on the ground next to him. She was obviously young, mahogany ringlets framing a fine-boned, nut-brown face. The speckles that dotted her nose and cheeks made her

look younger yet. Her thin, plain weave shirt and trousers reminded him of that Jane Foster of whom his brother was so wretchedly fond. Loki sighed in frustration. _Perfect_ , he thought, _more Midgardians_.

The woman scowled at him. "You needn't look at me like that. I stopped you from bleeding to death, but I hold myself under no obligation to do anything further for you.  Behave as you wish, but if you can't at least be civil, you'll get nothing else from me."

Loki took a breath, and exhaled slowly.  As much as he hated to admit it, what he needed right now was help. The pain in his innards was still increasing, though he had doubted before that were possible. He winced, and struggled to prop himself up on his elbows.  "Look," he said, then gave up. He slumped back down on the earth.  "I can't," he tried again, eyes shut tight in an effort to merely speak instead of shout, "I mean, I'd rather not continue on like this."

The woman hummed in her throat, thinking. "If you would like, I could help you sit up. Then we could have a proper introduction."

Loki nodded assent, and steeled himself against the pain that movement would inevitably involve. To his astonishment, the woman didn't move, but instead he rose a few inches off the ground, as though borne aloft by invisible hands, and he came to rest in a rather comfortable chair.

" _Seithr_ ," he breathed. " _You_ are the mage."

"Witch," she replied, stiffening slightly, "but yes." She pulled up a small camp chair and sat across from him, and began absently tending the fire. "You are acquainted with magic, then? But you don't expect it of me, I see. Because I'm, what did you call me? 'Midgardian'?"

"I never said..." he began hurriedly, before she interrupted him.

"True, you never spoke," she said, "but your thoughts are quite loud, I assure you. You are a wizard, or mage, if you prefer, but something has happened to your powers. What I don't know is what you are."

Loki, to spite his decreasing confidence, fell back on bravado, giving her a cocksure grin. "Oh, I'm like nothing you've ever seen," he said, and his eyes twinkled with a mischievous ferocity.

The woman scoffed, unimpressed. "The red eyes and blue skin gave it away, I'm afraid."

"The...what?" Loki looked down at his hands in shock, and there they were, blue as day.

"Not what you expected then? No, your glamour or whatever wore off - I watched it. Look, I don't know who you are, or where you're from, but if I were going to do anything horrible to you, it would have been done by now," she shrugged. "Not that your dog would have let me, of course."

Loki's temper flared. "What...that creature is none of mine!" he shouted. _Odin's missing orb_ , he cursed silently, _this woman is insufferable_.

The woman in question remained stock still, waves of cold fury radiating from her at this insult. Suddenly her voice filled his mind. _Yes_ , she said, _no one likes a know-it-all, you foolish git. You're not the only one with a temper. So come to grips with your problem, or stop wasting my time._

Reflexively, Loki reached for a spell to silence this impertinent Midgardian, but no spell came. The parasite had drained every drop of his magic. He was as helpless as the pitiful beings his brother so fiercely sought to protect.  He tried to reply, but the sound caught in his throat.  Any uttered word threatened to choke him with grief.

The woman watched all this, and, after a moment, closed her eyes and nodded.  "I'll leave you to it, then," she said levelly, but not unkindly. She rose from her place by the fire, and walked over to the tent and lifted the flap.

Just before going in, she turned back toward him. "My name's Hermione," she said quietly, "Hermione Granger." The man remained perfectly still, eyes reflecting the flickering flames.

"Loki," he said finally, in a voice hollow and distant. "Loki, of Asgard." He stared into the crackling fire, watching the shadows lengthen with the waning daylight.

...

 

Hermione stepped into the tent, then stood a long moment, letting her eyes adjust to the gloom. Like most wizard tents, it was quite a bit more spacious on the inside than one might normally infer from its outer measurements. Hermione had never gone in for the showier varieties, which sprouted chimneys and gables and the like. Hers would pass as a Muggle tent quite easily. It was obviously large and intended for extended camping, but it was a straightforward canvas affair, of a sort often used by medieval re-enactment types: a simple wedge, with a door at each end.

The front was carefully marked with an embroidered lion in the corner of each door flap. The front door went to the front room - a sparsely furnished space, containing a large wooden table, a trunk which doubled as a bench, a rough handwoven rug and a small but sturdy cot. All explicable items, if not explicitly normal by Muggle standards, but nothing beyond the pale. The back door, however, didn’t lead outside at all, but to a second, much larger room.

With a flick of her fingers she set a fairy-light aglow, which bobbed and drifted until it hovered over her other uninvited guest. "And now," she said, with a voice more sad than weary, "I think I'm owed some explanation."

The large black dog had made himself quite comfortable, having arranged a nest out of the quilt that had once been draped over her cot.  At the sound of Hermione’s voice, he perked up his ears, sat up at attention, and gave her a tongue-lolling canine grin.

"Okay, so it's to be a guessing game, then," she sighed. "If I'm talking to an ordinary dog, no one is here to witness how I’ve gone round the twist."

The dog tilted his head to one side, watching and listening. "Alright, she said, "You look just like a friend - someone I lost a long time ago. He was my best friend's godfather, and one of the last connections he had to his dead parents. A friend who was killed by his cousin. I was there; I saw it happen. What I think I’m seeing _can’t_ be possible.  You cannot be him."

One of the dog's ears twitched, but he didn't move otherwise. Hermione glowered. "But," she said, "if you ARE him, and you have been alive all this time, then how dare you show up here, now, without so much as a word that you were alive?" A whimper escaped the dog, who tried to bury himself in the blanket. "And if that’s true, why won't you just show yourself? You're here, behind my wards. You're as safe as it’s possible to be! Your killer is dead! No one has looked for you in a decade! Why won't you just turn back into a person and _talk_ to me?"

The torrent of emotion, which Hermione had pent up for so long, rose up in an overwhelming flood. War, and its aftermath, had hardened her on the face of things, but that facade was maintained only because it was regularly reinforced by the hopelessness she battled, and defeated, daily. With grim determination against insurmountable odds, she could cope. Survive.  Gain strength from bitterness, use it as a weapon. The prospect of feeling something that wasn’t despair was terrifying, alien. In spite of her near-conviction that this was just some strange mongrel, and not really Sirius at all, the tiniest glimmer of hope that, just maybe, it was, that it could, perhaps, be him, brought the long sunken pain of the past welling back to the surface, where it broke. And she broke.

The dog leapt up, running circles around Hermione and her distress. When she had gathered herself, and calmed down a bit, he turned to paw at the blanket again. Hermione, somewhat startled, stared as the whining dog as it tried to burrow under the thoroughly inadequate covering. He got himself mostly underneath, only to poke his head out from under the blanket and gave Hermione a mournful look.

And then, she began to laugh.

"Oh, _Merlin_ ," she chortled, after the hysterical giggles had lapsed into chuckles and snorts, "how could I be so ridiculously _thick_! Stay here, I'll be back," she said, stepping through a second flap at the back of the tent.

When she returned, she held up her finds for his inspection. "These will fit, with any luck," she said, tossing them onto a nearby chair. The dog gave a happy bark, as Hermione stepped back outside.

She stood there for a few minutes, breathing in the evening chill. Loki was, surprisingly, still sitting in the chair by the fire, which was dying down. From his bowed head, he was either meditating, or asleep. Hermione closed her eyes and concentrated: ah, yes - asleep. She fished a small bundle out of a basket near the entrance to the tent, and, walking quietly so as to not disturb his repose, took up a nearby branch and began to stir a well in the embers. She placed her burden, three bundles wrapped in tinfoil, in the well, and gently covered them with the glowing coals. She laid the stick carefully down, letting the tip rest just at the point where she'd buried her treasures. She turned then, and sat down on her little stool to consider this Loki.

Named after a Norse god. A trickster figure, known for cunning and deceit as much as playfulness and mirth. She saw little of mirth in this man, or whatever he was, but much of what it could turn into, if a person suffered enough torment. He reminded her of Draco, oddly - wit and prickles and boasting, all set to protect any tender spot. _Bring me the hard-luck cases_ , she thought wryly, _I'll set them aright._ A soft chuckle escaped her throat, and he stirred, eyelids opening a crack to reveal the eerie red glow beneath. A strange thing, that. It made her think of something she'd read, long ago, but she couldn't quite place it.

A small cough from the direction of the tent caught her attention. When she looked up, she could hardly see the man standing there, dark shaggy hair and scraggly beard looking exactly as she remembered them. The welling in her eyes clouded the details, but she knew. She heard his mind, and knew him. He was ragged, and tired, and completely unchanged in a dozen years' passage.

Wherever he had been, Sirius had come home.

e home.


	4. Campfire Meeting

From the door of the tent, Sirius looked out on the campfire’s dying glow. There was very little else holding back the night, save the waning crescent that already hung low on the horizon. He watched as Hermione - older, now, grown to adulthood - buried something in the remains of the fire. She sat, deep in thought, and he couldn’t help being proud of the responsible person she seemed to have grown into.  He wondered why she was out in the middle of a forest, living in a tent, but the ward she’d created wasn’t just powerful, it was elegant. A beautiful thing to behold, even with his dog-sight. Coming upon that barrier had given him an intense feeling of hope - at least the canine variety, which felt like the assurance of a good ear-scratch - and he’d realized then that he was somewhere very like home.  The magic was familiar, as comforting as the scent of leaves or the way the dust felt in his fur.

And then, the magic had turned out to be Hermione’s.

He recalled the words that Hel had spoken to him: he couldn’t have his old life back, could not be anywhere over which she held sway, if he were to live on.  So, wherever he was, there was no Hel, or she wasn’t in control of the realm of the dead. But here he was, on Earth again, in England again, and where does he land on his feet? Of all the doorsteps in all the world, it had been hers.

The fates, perhaps, were kind after all.

He’d worried so much about those children, Harry and his friends, who had been at the center of so much of the chaos that had engulfed their lives, though it had also given him a new one.  And here was definitive proof of their tenacity, their brilliance - Hermione had survived to become an incredibly powerful witch.

He hoped - he prayed - that Harry was still alive here, too.

That thought brought him out of his reverie. There was so much he didn’t know, and so much he had missed in, what had she said? More than ten years? There was only one way to find out.

When he tried to speak, all that came out was a small croak, but Hermione was alert at once, rising abruptly when she saw him. He couldn’t see her eyes, but her voice sounded as raw with emotion as he felt. “You...I almost didn’t believe,” she stammered as he stepped into the circle of firelight. “How is this even possible?”

Sirius felt his eyes mist over, full of pride and joy and gratitude. “Merlin’s beard, I don’t know myself. But you!” He clasped her by the shoulders and stood back at arm’s length, trying to see the girl he’d known in the woman before him. “Please,” he said, taking her hand, “come sit, and tell me what happened!"

Hermione motioned to the camp stools, across the fire from where Loki was sitting motionless, ensconced in the chair. As they sat, she gave Sirius a quizzical look. “You don’t know? Where have you been that you don’t know?”

Sirius shook his head, a look of bewilderment on his face. “I don’t actually know that, either. Not for certain. I'll tell you everything about it - but first, please tell me...did Harry make it? Is he...?"

Hermione temporarily laid aside her desire to know all, and took a small delight in being able to share a tiny morsel of good news. "We won. Harry won, actually. Part of Voldemort's soul had been trapped in Harry's scar, and there was a prophecy at the Department of Mysteries about them: 'Neither can live while the other survives.' Harry sacrificed himself so Voldemort would be well and truly dead. He did it for us...for all of us..." Her voice trailed off into silence.  She marveled at that, still.

Sirius emitted a small, strangled gasp, but Hermione spoke up quickly. "No,” she said, placing a gentle hand on his arm, “you don't understand. He came _back_."

He wasn’t as thunderstruck as Hermione might have anticipated. Sirius was silent for a long moment, but it was pensive silence. "He...was dead, and came back?" he mused, staring into the middle distance.

Hermione nodded. "I still don't understand completely how it happened. Harry still won't talk about it much. He doesn't seem bothered by it, though. He's...free."

Sirius's expression was grim. "He had so much riding on him, didn't he? And what do you do, after you've saved the world?"

A chuckling sigh escaped from Hermione. "Apparently, you heal it. He tried going for the Auror squad but it wasn't right for him. He's apprenticing at St. Mungo's." She looked briefly worried, but hid it with a smirk. "Alright, it's your turn. Where have you been? I can hardly believe it's been so long, to look at you."

He ran his fingers through his hair and gave her a sheepish grin. "You may be more right than you know. I don't think it has been that long, for me." Hermione had that eyebrow raised again, but she was still listening, at least. He shook his head to clear it, and started again. "In the Department of Mysteries, Bellatrix pushed me through the Veil. When I landed, I was somewhere else - and still alive."

Hermione's frown returned. "That can't be. She killed you. I heard her use the Killing Curse. You were dead before you fell."

"Actually," he said, measuring his words, "there may be an explanation for that. Where I went, I...met someone, who told me that I couldn't return to my old life. That I could find a way to another place - another world, I thought.  She talked of many realms that she had power over, but hinted that there might be another place where I would be allowed to live."

This was the first that Hermione had noticed the change in him - Sirius was less agitated, more quiet of spirit than she’d ever known him to be.  Brow furrowed, she listened on.

“I had no idea where I’d end up,” he continued. “Could have been on top of a volcano, for all I knew - but what did I have to lose? I followed my nose, and here I am. With this chap.” He glanced behind him at the man he'd followed here, then looked again. "Wait," he said, bending over to whisper near Hermione’s ear, "he wasn't blue before, was he?"

"No," came a low growl from the recumbent figure, "he wasn't."

Crimson slits glinted in the dark at the pair of them, as Sirius and Hermione turned towards the speaker. The sight was unsettling: although the glowing red eyes called up the magical creatures entry for the relatively harmless _ashwinder_ in the encyclopedia that was Hermione's brain, the association of man-shaped magical being and snake conjured a memory far darker. But she had sensed Loki's otherwise unrevealed feeling of frustrated powerlessness, and the scrap of humanity thus revealed was far greater than any Voldemort had retained. She respected that humanity enough not to antagonize him over his peevishness, or to pry into any less immediate causes for his distress.

Besides, most creatures bite when cornered.

Sirius, still a bit too discomfited to reply with anything other than a muffled "Apologies," turned to watch Hermione as she began stirring the embers, retrieving three blackened lumps from the heart of the coals, before building the fire up once more.

Loki, too, observed her, with palpable suspicion. "I don't know," she replied to his glower, "what you eat, or even if you eat, but you're welcome to join us."

Then the aroma began to rise above the smell of the wood smoke.

Sirius inhaled deeply, and sighed. "Hermione Jean Granger," he breathed, "you are _brilliant_ ," as she pulled out a trio of battered plates and forks, and began to relieve each packet of blackened tinfoil of its burden.

Hermione gave a wry smile, and indicated an insulated container just outside the door of the tent. "I've only butter and salt, over there. Would you mind terribly fetching it?" Sirius's eyes lit up, and he fairly rushed to get the promised items.

The Asgardian craned his neck to watch an unappetizing brown lump land on a piece of dark red crockery. He wrinkled his nose in disgust at the sight, but his stomach rumbled mutinously. The scent of it was earthy, charred, and somehow slightly sweet. "What," he sneered, as Sirius reached over to hand him the plate, "is this supposed to be?"

"Jacket potatoes, and the only foodstuffs on hand enough for three," said Hermione. It didn't show in her voice, but a slight glint in her eyes betrayed her irritation. She reminded herself this was a person in quite a lot of pain, and continued, with a more neutral expression. "It's not ambrosia, perhaps, but it feeds the body well enough. Break it open, put a little butter and salt on it if you like.”

Loki wondered if this witch knew more about him than she revealed: the mention of ambrosia hit quite closer to the mark than he'd expected. He (and his now growling innards) remembered his relative weakness, and saw the necessity of both food and manners. "Ah," he said, prodding the steaming vegetable with a claw-like fingernail.

He prised out a bit of the center and examined it. The others had fallen to already, the man consuming his portion with obvious relish. The woman was taking more measured mouthfuls, the fork glistening golden with the melting butter.

Loki resisted the urge to tear into the cooling spud with his elongated canines, instead placing the tidbit of fluffy white flesh on his tongue with deliberate caution. The result was surprisingly intense. This unassuming foodstuff tingled with flavors: a dry, charred sweetness mingled with a metallic tang and something that tasted like soil smelled. Loki held the plate away from himself, frowning. “Why does this taste,” he said, half to himself, “like it came out of the ground?”

At the slight choking sound, he looked up, to see the woman staring at him harshly, while the man’s face grew from red to purple, contorting with suppressed laughter. After several seconds, a guffaw erupted, and the woman turned her scowl on the chortling man. Giggling helplessly, the man nearly collided with her before he saw her stern expression, and began gradually to gain control of himself. “I’m sorry, Hermione,” he said, chuckles escaping between his words, “but he’s right, you know.” She sputtered in protest, but the man shook his head. “No, no, no, it’s not an insult,” he said, turning towards him, “was it?”

Loki had the sense he should look abashed, although he wasn’t certain why he would do such a thing. “I...did not expect it,” he said, instead, holding onto what distance his remaining shreds of dignity could afford him. “I meant nothing but what I asked. It is,” he said, with another prod at the vegetable, “completely unlike anything in…” he trailed off. Rather than talk about any place he might once have called home, he fell into silence once more.

The man’s expression sobered, and after a darting glance at the woman, he leaned until his face came into Loki’s full view. “I see,” he said, although Loki doubted seriously that he could. “To answer your question, potatoes do grow underground.” Loki didn’t deign to meet his gaze, but gave a small, recalcitrant shrug.

The woman breathed a sigh, and said something low under her breath. After a moment, she spoke again, in a whisper, to the man next to her. “I should tell Harry you’re here,” she said. “We’ll need his help anyway. Excuse me.”

The man pulled his chair around to face Loki more directly, although he didn’t do anything else to get his attention. “They’re better with butter, you know,” he said conversationally. “Of course, if you don’t want it…”

In the battle of wills, Loki’s stomach had been steadily gaining ground over his pride, and the stranger’s sally proved to be the decisive blow needed to end the skirmish. Loki closed his eyes in defeat, and shook his head slowly. “No,” he said, “it’s fine.”

“Suit yourself,” the man said, somewhat sadly. “Although it’s gone cold by now, butter won’t melt. Here,” he said, taking the plate from him. Before Loki could protest, he had split the vegetable in twain, taken a pinch of salt from a small urn, and sprinkled it over the top. “That should help,” he said, proffering the dish.

“Th-thank you,” Loki stammered, shocked at the unsettled feeling that was rising in him, along with the anticipation of eased hunger. Dispensing with manners entirely, he grabbed one of the halves and gnawed at it. The corner of his mind still dedicated to sarcastic comment had plenty to say about this barbaric behavior, but his stomach drowned it out, for the most part, and the man across from him said nothing against it, either.


	5. Assistance

Harry rubbed the bridge of his nose, his head and brain aching with fatigue. Leaving the Ministry for an apprenticeship at St. Mungo’s had been the best thing, of course, but that didn’t stop the long hours of a Healer’s day from being just as exhausting as chasing down the last of the Death Eaters. It was also less likely to induce the same adrenaline rush that had made the Department of Magical Law Enforcement such an exciting place to work.

Still, he was a Master of Death. He much preferred to be preventing it, rather than inflicting it.

Between his reputation as a war hero and Rita Skeeter’s scathing biographies, reception of Harry Potter, Auror, had always been a mixed bag. More often than not, his presence on an Auror squad had endangered his comrades, usually much more than the protection he provided. He found that his main objective, on any assignment, was to protect people, and when that had occasionally extended to keeping a captured Death Eater from dying of their Auror-inflicted wounds - well, some of his fellow Aurors weren’t particularly content with that.  Ron never had a problem, of course, but Ronald Weasley was one of Harry’s best friends, and understood better than just about everyone how much a death - any death - meant to Harry.

He could look Death in the face, and accept it for what it was, but he was duty-bound to do something about it, no matter the cost.

The cost, it turned out, had been higher than he’d anticipated. The friends he’d made at the Ministry - at least, the ones who were relatively well-positioned - hadn’t been particularly cordial to him since the incident with the Lestranges. One of the last raids that Kingsley Shacklebolt had spearheaded before being elected Minister for Magic, at the end of a months-long manhunt for two of Voldemort’s fiercest supporters, had come to a close in a ramshackle little place in the back of nowhere, when one spell or other had set the place on fire, trapping Rabastan Lestrange inside. Harry had insisted, quite correctly, that the man should be retrieved from the flames. If he died, they’d have lost their one good lead in finding his brother, Rodolphus.  He could also have set up the blaze himself, to fake his death and make another escape. But that wasn’t what had concerned Harry when he’d heard the man’s panicked screams, and he’d realized that Rabastan, in that instant, was facing his own death.  He cared nothing for the case, the law, or the just imprisonment of one of Voldemort’s most evil henchmen.  _ No one deserved to die that way, no matter what crimes they’d committed. _ He couldn’t let that happen to anyone.

Harry had always been as rubbish at hiding his feelings as he was at lying.

He, Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, had shown compassion for a Death Eater.  For a man who’d tortured countless people, and killed who knows how many more, all for the cause of blood purity, in the name of the darkest wizard who ever lived.

He didn’t blame them for not understanding.  But that didn’t make the cold shoulders any easier to live with.

* * *

Hermione let out her breath in one swift gust the moment the tent flap closed behind her. Sirius’s return had stirred up far too many old memories for his presence to be a comfort yet, and there had been too much to take in about this day already -- at least if she was trying to do it alone. 

Thankfully, she didn’t have to.

She pulled the trunk out from under the table, jiggling the thick metal latch. With a heave she lifted the lid, and fished around in one of the many pockets sewn into the side of the lining. She had applied Undetectable Extension Charms to most of them, but one she had kept unextended. She slipped her hand into it, and pulled out a small, shiny oblong.

The spell itself was relatively simple, but it had taken years to perfect the disguise. Talking to a makeup compact in public was simply too out of the ordinary for the two-way mirrors to be usable anywhere there were Muggles about. The advent of smartphones had changed all that. Muggles were now thoroughly used to seeing other people talking to someone’s face on a rectangular screen; the only challenge had been to transfigure the spelled mirrors to look like one of these sleek technological wonders. Hermione pulled her treasure out from its place of honor in the trunk, and whispered gently onto its surface: “ _ Harry. _ ”

Moments later, a familiar face appeared: a slight man in his thirties with erratic black hair, which was showing the first hints of greying at the temples, and not quite covering a jagged scar on his forehead. He looked tired, and concerned. “Hi,” he said, rubbing his eyes briefly as he adjusted a pair of thick-framed spectacles on his face. His eyes focused behind the lenses, and a look of concern creased his face. “What’s wrong?”

_ Sirius is back. _ The words sounded so strange in her mind that she couldn’t so much as form them. She went with the lesser of the afternoon’s two oddities. “I need your help,” she said, focusing on the more immediately pressing matter. “I’ve had...a visitor, and he’s wounded. He looks like he’s been shot...with  _ something. _ ”

“Muggle, or magical?” Harry said, then backtracked. “No, wait, person first, then the thing that injured him.”

Hermione frowned. “I think he  _ is _ magical, but something, maybe this injury, is draining his magic.”

“Wait,” Harry said, peering at her closely, “if he’s a wizard, why haven’t you brought him to St. Mungo’s?”

“He’s magical,” she said, “but he doesn’t seem to know about the Wizarding World. It’s...it’s odd. You’ll just have to see him, I can’t explain. 

Harry’s look was guarded, but only on her account. They’d known each other too long for them to doubt each other. “I’m almost finished here,” he said, after a moment’s pause. “I’m supposed to meet Ron after shift,” he said. “Can I bring him?”

Hermione considered for a moment. “It’ll be fine. He might even be able to help. I’ll meet you at the wards,” she decided. “I have someone else here...someone you’ll have to see to believe.”

Eyebrow cocked at her cryptic words, Harry gave a nod, that was nevertheless full of misgivings. “I’ll tell Ron to meet me there. Sounds like the sooner we’re there, the better.”

Hermione’s expression was cautious too, but there was a gleam in her eyes that Harry hadn’t seen in a long time, which could have been hope, or excitement. Or fear. He nodded once more, and with a swift “See you soon,” he broke the connection, slipped the mirror in his pocket, and ran for the nearest fireplace.

“Ron Weasley, Department of Magical Law Enforcement,” he said as the Floo powder hit the flames. 

Ron’s face quickly appeared in the heart of the fire, with an indignant, “What? You’re not working late again, are you?”

Harry shook his head. “No, I’m on time for once. Just a slight change of plan. Meet me at home?"

Ron frowned at his friend's lack of explanation, but nodded. “Right. I won't be much longer here. When will you be done?"

“I’ll be there shortly - in, say, a quarter of an hour," Harry chimed.

“Right,” said Ron, and his face disappeared in a puff of green smoke. 

Harry hurried back to his desk, cleared away the detritus of the sandwich he’d gobbled down while tending to this evening’s reports, grabbed his cloak and flew back to the fireplace. “Number 12 Grimmauld Place,” he said, and vanished with the green flames.

* * *

Hermione met them at the base of an ancient oak, her long cloak pulled tight about her in the late evening chill. Ron and Harry arrived within seconds of each other, Apparating into the small clearing in the surrounding thicket, the closest completely secluded place to Hermione's camping spot. Harry put his hand on her shoulder, giving it a friendly but worried squeeze. 

Ron stood back a little, more agitated than his friend. "Hermione," he blurted brashly, "what's going on?"

Her eyes darted back and forth between them. "Someone needs help," she said, "and you're the only two I could really trust with this."

The two men shrugged acceptance of this explanation, and Hermione turned, signaling them to follow her. The edge of the ward was only a few strides away, and once they had walked through, she turned to the two men and told them about the injured man she had found.

Ron gaped at this. "You mean you just took in a strange man, who may or may not be a wizard - who may not even be  _ human _ ?"

"Actually," she admitted, "I'm almost positive he's not human. But who or what he might be isn't easy to determine, and he's not particularly forthcoming about himself."

Harry was looking at her intently, reading his friend's mood, if not her mind. "Clearly you're worried about him," he said, looking Hermione straight in the eye. "Why?" It was a serious question, not a challenge.

Hermione glanced back and forth between them, the two men in the world who'd known her longest, who knew her best. "I worry about this man, Loki, because of his despair. It rolls off him. He is injured, by something that has stolen his powers, and he wants to die, but whatever it is won't let him." Her look of concentration deepened into her habitual frown. "He's like Draco was, end of sixth year. He's driven, but misguided, and subject to a power that is consuming him. And my greatest worry," she concluded, "is that I don't know what this power is or where it comes from. Or how to fight it."

This time Ron spoke up, frowning. “How do you know he's not a threat?”

Hermione shook her head, reaching up to twist one of the short curls near her temple. “He’s too injured to be dangerous at the moment. Besides, he has...a very convincing alibi.” She bit her lip, hesitating, “Someone  _ else _ came here with him.  Someone I...trust.”

The question 'who' was obviously on both men's lips, but she remained mute, face tight with strain, as they passed through the second set of wards. Once they did, the camp popped into view. The campfire had died utterly, the clearing wrapped in shadows. Small sounds of movement issued from the tent, along with a sliver of light. Hermione hung back from her own front door, just for a second, before touching the tent flap. Before she could lift it, it opened from the inside. A man of middling height, face cast into deep shadow, was turned away from the door, saying something to another person inside.

"It's all very well, she's back now, with help for your ungrateful hide, most likely," he chided, before turning to the trio at the door. "I got him indoors out of the chill, and into the light you'd need to check on him. He growled like a grumpy hippogriff, but the bandage looks none the worse for wear."

Ron stepped forward cautiously, giving Hermione a stunned, incredulous look. Harry remained frozen to the spot. Hermione took his arm, carefully watching his face. "It's him," she said quietly. "I didn't dare believe it at first, but...see for yourself."

Harry nodded mutely, and let himself be led into the tent. The glow of a lamp illuminated the small chamber, falling mostly on the cluttered table. A long, lean person was stretched out on the small cot, face turned away from the light, head propped with pillows, shins dangling over the end of the narrow bed.

On a small camp chair nearby, sat a ghost. Or someone who should have been a ghost.


	6. Intervention

**Chapter Six - Intervention**

"Harry," the ghost said, tears welling up in his eyes. "Merlin, I can't believe it's you."

In shock, delight, and disbelief, Harry’s mouth moved soundlessly, every thought and emotion jockeying to be the first spoken. Finally, a strangled laugh won out. "I should be saying the same thing!" he exclaimed, unable to say the man's name, or even think it. It was just so impossible. He stood stock still, shaking his head in a daze, bewilderment and joy spreading across his face in a grin.

"Never mind me, Harry," Sirius said, "we'll have time. I'm not so sure about this fellow."

The bundle on the cot turned his head, and piercing red eyes shone out and met Harry's green. His face, skeletal and sunken, was a dull blue-white. Harry had no idea what this person's species was, but he was as near death as any patient he'd ever seen.

“He took a turn for the worse after you left, Hermione,” Sirius continued. “I was teasing him, a bit, to keep both our spirits up. I thought I’d gone too far with it, that he’d stopped speaking to me,” he explained. “That was when I realized it’d gotten so much worse, he’d stopped talking altogether.”

Hermione frowned in concentration. "Loki," she said, in tones of gentle reproof, "this is Harry. He's a Healer, and the most brilliant wizard I know. If anyone can help, he can." 

Harry gave Hermione a sidelong questioning look, to which she only nodded affirmation. She was reading this Loki, though no one else could hear him. His presence, though, was strong - far more forceful than any Muggle, on a par only with wizards and witches of great power. A magnificent being, he must have been - brought low by some unknown force. Harry cleared his throat to speak, and addressed the startlingly blue face as he would any witch or wizard in his care at St. Mungo's.

"You're wounded, Hermione said," he began, sitting down on the camp chair, and beckoning to Ron and Hermione to bring more light. Loki grimaced, but moved his hand to his side, clawed fingertips just touching the white gauze. The blood seeping through the bindings was dark, nearly black. "I want to look at this, but for now it may be better to keep it bound. Can you tell me what was it that injured you?"

The man on the cot shook his head almost imperceptibly. Hermione swore under her breath. "You'll die if you don't let us help you, you know," she said to Loki. She turned at Harry's inquiring look. "He doesn't know what hit him," she says, "but he won't be clearer than that."

Harry looked the man in the face. "I'll do my best for you, I promise you that," he said. "You can't know how lucky you are, for Hermione to have found you. What I can't figure out, she can. Take a chance, and trust us. You have literally nothing to lose.”

Loki's eyes flickered from Hermione to Harry and back again, and he cocked an eyebrow. Then a jolt of pain caught him unawares, and he grimaced and closed his eyes. Hermione's expression lost its focus as she concentrated on whatever images Loki was projecting. "It...it's like nothing I've ever seen," she said. "Part living creature, part machine. He didn't see what hit him, but it was propelled out of a tube, like a blowpipe. But," she shuddered, "what propelled it used an entire being's life-force to do it." Horrified, she turned to Loki, who only stared bleakly in return. " ‘Chitauri,’ he says. Though what that means, I have no idea.” 

Harry nodded decisively, keeping his eyes on Loki. "Do you know where this projectile is now?"

The man nodded weakly, and Hermione said, "In his back, near the spine. It's slowing now, but it has been moving, on its own."

“It sounds like magic,” Harry mused. “Maybe we can track it - see if it left a trail through the wound.”

Loki blanched at this, his face a sickly blue porcelain. “We only have to uncover the wound to look at it. It shouldn’t hurt beyond the discomfort of removing the gauze,” Harry reassured him. 

The man seemed unconvinced, giving Hermione a slightly petulant look. “Sorry,” she said, “we must.” Hermione turned to Ron and Sirius, who had been hovering nearby in awkward silence. “Would one of you,” she asked, “hold up a light, so we can get a proper look?”

Ron shuffled his feet uncomfortably, muttering something about standing guard outside. Sirius, too, seemed unnerved, but took hold of himself and stepped forward, grasping the lamp and raising it above Harry and Hermione’s heads.

It had been years since they’d worked together, in the aftermath of those last battles, tending the wounded together with Muggle first aid until the Healers could get round to those less seriously injured. But as soon as they bent to their task, the years rolled away, and Harry and Hermione fell easily into sync with each other. Sirius looked on in awed silence, watching them, and the shadow of a man under their hands.

The pair of them worked swiftly but deliberately, wetting each layer of gauze before pulling it away, gingerly, until the entire bandage was removed. The wound glistened at the outer edge, but within the surface was dark, cauterized by the projectile’s passage. It seeped, but didn’t bleed freely. That had least kept this man from bleeding out within minutes. Whether it had saved his life remained to be seen. 

Hermione laid a hand on the man’s forehead, a gesture of comfort, combined with a calming spell. He had to be sensible for them to determine what was going on. Loki’s eyes flashed angrily at the outset of the spell, but went cool and aloof as it took effect.  At the same time, Harry, raising his wand, muttered a detecting charm, and an intricate network of lines, like capillaries, glowed on the surface of the open wound, and lit up the passage inside the body, searing blue against the swollen purple flesh. 

Loki lay perfectly still, but the corners of his eyes twitched with the strain of it. The parasite hadn’t sensed the danger yet, but it would soon. It was integrating itself into his body - the needling, pricking sensations at the base of his spine were beginning to move upwards, testing for weakness, for access. All this Hermione received, and relayed, as Harry pulled a small flesh-colored roll out of his Healer’s bag. He uncoiled it, a spindly thread with flattened circular ends, and sent the smaller end snaking into the wound, following the illuminated tracework to its source. Sirius watched as Harry applied the other end to his spectacles, which began to flicker with the same traceries of light. “I see it,” he said, eyes focused on the backs of the lenses. “It’s...it’s taking hold of him, or trying to.” 

Harry started to speak again, but Hermione cut him off. “ ‘Do what you must, but don’t speak it aloud,’ "she snapped.  “I think,” came her own reply, seconds later, ”I think it’s gaining awareness.”

Harry’s mouth tightened into a thin line, as he focused his entire being onto this one task. To remove it, he’d have to cut it free; not pick off one tendril at a time, but all, simultaneously. Besides, if this thing was cognizant of an attacker, it might also react to being detached. Unbidden, a spell came to Harry’s mind. He gulped. The risk would be high.

He bore down on the projectile with all his will. The room, Hermione, Sirius, and the prone figure of Loki all faded from view, until the form of it filled his mind, and all other concerns were shut out. 

Harry took one deep breath, and exhaled.

“Sectum sempra.”

Hermione's hand clenched involuntarily when she heard the spell, but she held herself motionless. Harry stood stock still, perspiring heavily with concentration, his lips moving soundlessly as he wove spells to shrink and draw out whatever had felled Loki. The long, fleshy tube came out slightly ahead of a metallic creature. Writhing, flailing threads, tentacle-like, projected from every surface of its segmented body, reaching toward the wound from which it had been retrieved. The thing gleamed, oily gunmetal smeared with red-black blood. 

Harry flicked his eyes towards Hermione once, and she took hold of the creature at once, and it slowed its frantic waving. Harry's voice came through low and soothing, the chanting almost a lullaby. She watched, transfixed, as the gaping wound faded from violent purple to gentle lavender, and flushed again with new blood, bright with promised healing. The wound itself began to close, from the inside out, and when the mouth of it closed, it left only a thin line atop a seam of puffy, reddened skin.

The room heaved a collective sigh. Harry removed his glasses, wiping the sweat from his brow with his sleeve, and sat down to check his patient's vitals. Loki was still gaunt and pale, but he'd lost some of his deathly pallor. He was conscious, and breathing. It was early days yet, but he was still alive, and that in itself was a mercy. 

Harry looked over at Hermione, who was still levitating the creature between her hands. "What do we do with it?" she asked.

Harry thought for a moment. "It's alive, at least partially," he pondered aloud. "See if you can petrify it, so we can look at it later. I need to rest a bit, before we start."

Hermione nodded, and signaled to Sirius to hand her a jar from the littered potions table. She moved the creature into the open container and petrified it, sealing the lid. Potential threat contained, Harry and Hermione slumped exhaustedly down on the bench together, opposite their patient.

Loki turned his head toward the pair, giving Harry a weary look, red eyes dull and only just open. When his gaze flickered to Hermione, she came over and perched on the edge of the cot. “Would you like something, a spell, to help you sleep?” she asked. Loki shook his head slightly, and fell into shallow slumber, even as Harry answered her.

“No,” he said, “too dangerous to give him anything to help him sleep, even a spell.” Harry looked the man over, at Loki’s wasted flesh sunken over his once lithe frame. 

“Of course not,” Hermione said, shaking her head dazedly. “I don’t know where my mind was.”

“Probably taking a well-deserved rest,” Sirius remarked dryly. He sat down on the nearby bench, hands perched on his knees. “Merlin,” he said gently, with an expression of awed contentment, “when I found myself back here, in spite of everything, I thought nothing could astonish me more. And here you are, performing wonders before my eyes. I couldn’t be more proud.”

Hermione blushed slightly, but Harry shook his head. “St. Mungo’s wouldn’t approve most of this, I’m afraid. As an Auror, I continually ran into situations where basic orthodox healing just wouldn’t do, there wasn’t time or the right potion to hand, or it was too dangerous to Apparate to safety. That’s when I started using jinxes and charms for healing.” He looked sheepishly at Hermione. “I never could remember as much as you, so I made do with what came to mind first.”

“You give yourself far too little credit,” Sirius replied staunchly. “Taking a jinx intended to torture and maim, and using it to save a man’s life?” He laid a consoling hand on his godson’s shoulder. “That takes a compassionate and courageous turn of mind few people can claim.”

Harry’s cheeks flushed at this, but he made no demur. Instead, he turned inquiring eyes on Sirius. “How is it you know this man? Do you know where he comes from? What kind of being he is? I’ve never seen anyone like him before.”

“Nor will again, possibly,” Sirius shook his head. “It’s a long story, but one Hermione tells me you’ll believe. I followed him here, as Padfoot, from the paths of the dead. It was,” he sighed, “after I passed through the Veil, alive.” He settled onto the bench next to Harry, and told his tale, how he’d wandered through crowds of invisible ghosts, shades from the Nine Realms; his interview with Hel, ruler of the dead; the chance he’d been given at new life.

“And so I followed him, because he smelled of magic and cold, of all things. I felt - I still feel - that it’s my duty to watch out for him, that it was this reason Hel sent me out from her domain.” Sirius shook his shaggy head, in awe of the very memory of these events. “And then,” he continued, “wonder of wonders, I ended up here, and Hermione found us both. The rest,” he concluded, “you know.”

The three of them looked at each other, and at Loki, before Sirius shrugged. “Truthfully, I have seen something like him, before. One of the shades, I caught a glimpse out of the corner of my eye, of a being much like him, although taller, and covered in frost. Hel called them the Jotnir,” he breathed, clearly disturbed by the recollection. “I don’t know if that will help you. It may be that name means nothing in this world.”

Hermione looked contemplative, and said nothing. Harry just nodded. “It may help, you never know. For now, though, I think we should get some food, and some rest. In the morning, we’ll see if Loki can be moved, and if he can, I’ll take him home with me.”

Sirius looked up expectantly. “Did you ever get out of Grimmauld Place, Harry? I know I left it to you, as my godson, but I hate to see you living someplace so unhappy.”

Harry’s mouth widened into a sly grin. “Oh,” he said, with a mysterious twinkle in his eye, “I’m quite happy with where I live. You should come with us tomorrow, and see it. Hermione can Apparate you, straight there.”

Harry cast a concerned eye towards his patient, who’d shifted slightly in his sleep. "Don't worry,” Sirius said, “You two go get something to eat, and relieve Ron from guard duty. I’ll watch Loki.”


	7. Transition

The erstwhile surgeons stepped outside into the night air, with a single backward glance spared for both their patient and his minder. The years at Hogwarts had prepared Harry and Hermione, Muggle-born and -raised as they both had been, to expect all kinds of surprising and inexplicable occurrences. Nevertheless, "Harry's godfather back from the dead" with a side of "possible alien" were daunting events to accept, in or out of the Wizarding World.

They were still digesting all this when they were accosted by an impatient Ron, who'd had more than enough time to stew about it. "Bloody hell, Hermione!" he exploded, face showing flushed and red in the light of his wand. "There is no way that can really be Sirius in there," Ron exclaimed, as he looked appealingly from Harry to Hermione and back again, "we all saw him die! With the Killing Curse!" His face ripened to violet as they watched, astounded. "And that...that thing?" he ranted, gesticulating towards the tent, coming up almost on his toes in his agitation. "I may not have gotten a N.E.W.T. in Care of Magical Creatures, but that is nothing like anything I've ever seen!" His voice had nearly risen to the level of shouting, but when his eyes came to rest on Harry and Hermione's stricken faces, he forced it down to a harsh whisper. "I expect you have a reason for taking them in, but I'm not going to just stand here in blissful ignorance." He put his heels back down to the earth, crossing his arms and standing firm on both feet. After taking a deep breath, he gave his two best friends a stern, worried glare worthy of Molly Weasley. "I want an explanation, before this goes any further."

Hermione looked from Ron's face to Harry's, before slumping onto one of the makeshift benches around the fire pit. "Of course I'll explain, Ron." The shadows around her eyes deepened, weariness falling into exhaustion. "I know you're just worried for me," she admitted, "although I obviously trust myself more than you trust me." Ron started to protest, but she held up her hand, face cautiously apologetic. "No, sorry, I don't mean to make this about us just now," she clarified, patting the seat next to her in invitation. Harry dropped on the end of the bench, facing her, eager to get the story himself. Ron shook his head vaguely, leaning against a nearby tree instead. Hermione reached up into her tangled halo of dark hair and began twisting a piece, her face a mask of concentration. "You'll want the whole of it, so I need to start at the beginning. This fellow, whatever he might be, I found just outside my wards, prone and injured. He was accompanied by a large black dog - a dog I recognized." She looked up to each of them in turn, searching their faces. "You both know that I've been under scrutiny from the Ministry for quite some time." Her hands dropped into her lap as she straightened. "As a result I have...developed certain skills that would meet with official approval no more than your unorthodox healing methods, Harry."

Bewildered looks crossed the two men's faces. Harry's settled into calm patience, with a certainty that all would be revealed in time. Ron was scowling, pessimism and distrust roughening his features. Hermione gave an embarrassed grimace, and went on. "I developed a way of passively gathering people's thoughts, at least their stronger emotions. It's the reason I chose to help that man - why I took both of them in: I can sense their thoughts. More their attitudes, really, but it's the same effect." Harry's eyebrows were slowly rising into his hairline, but Ron's scowl had only deepened. "As for those two, Sirius is, well, genuine. Truly himself. And he's protecting this man Loki, although he knows him scarcely more than I do."

She took a deep breath. "Loki is, or was, immensely powerful. Obviously he is dangerous, or would be if he weren't so weakened. What remains unclear," she said, with slight hesitation, "is whether he's more a danger to us or to himself." Her brow creased slightly, hands twisting the tendril of hair as she considered. "As to 'what' he is, Ron," she continued after a moment's pause, " even if he's not human, at least he's a person, not a being or a creature. He certainly considers himself sentient and sovereign, so that's what counts," she said, emphatically. About whether Loki considered them human, she held serious reservations, but left that matter unspoken for the moment.

She met their gazes steadily. "Look," she said, "if someone's hurt, we help them. I knew Harry would understand, without question." Ron frowned, resentful of the implication, but Hermione plunged on. "I needed your skepticism too, Ron," she said, with a half-apologetic sigh, "to be certain I was walking into this with both eyes open." The hurt on Ron's face softened somewhat, although the worry remained. "And I am certain, at least, that no other alternative has presented itself," she finished, drawing up her knees to perch on the bench, wrapping her arms around them, an unconscious effort at security.

Ron crouched on the ground in front of her, gently laying a hand on one knee. "Okay, Hermione," he said, voice even and conciliatory. "I don't understand it, but I believe you. But what will you do now? Keep this stranger in a tent in the woods until he can get about by himself?" He shot her a knowing look. "I don't think, however much you trust either of these men, that being stuck out here with them, alone, is a very good idea."

Harry leaned over and took her hand, nodding definitively when she looked up at him. "Besides," he said with a wry smile, "if Loki's going to be my patient, I should be able to keep an eye on him. I was already thinking of taking him to Grimmauld Place, once he's conscious enough to agree to it. You and Sirius could both come back, stay with me, and keep an eye on him while I'm out, if you're willing."

Hermione considered it a moment, then gave a slight shrug. "It's better than any idea I have at the moment, but I'm uneasy," she admitted. "I keep thinking of 'Androcles and the Lion,'" she explained, staring into the darkened remains of the campfire. "Will Loki thank us, I wonder, for removing the thorn?"

Loki moved in and out of consciousness, with dreams completely unlike any he'd ever experienced. Delirium, born of blood loss and fatigue, warped the products of his mind's eye, and he plummeted down through layers of images, like falling through the paths of Yggdrasil, descent settling into visions of excruciating mundanity, where he meandered through dim, dull passages and trudged endless moving staircases. What he saw had the solidity and clarity of memory, yet every sight was new. Always he sought to move upwards, to escape the bog of circuitous paths he was forced to navigate, but each time he'd thought he'd reached the pinnacle, his foot inexplicably trod, not up to the topmost landing, but down the last stair to the bottom.

After what felt like days of wandering, Loki slumped down onto the stairway, utterly defeated. Numb with despair, he sat for some time, thinking nothing, feeling nothing. The rage that had fueled him was, if not gone, then so far distant as to be unreachable. He had no desire to compel him to live, and no power to help him die. And so he sat here, alone - alone, as he had been his entire life. Other, excluded, set apart, but for no higher purpose, and to no successful end. Odin had rescued him from death by exposure, only to sentence him to preordained failure. His every impulse to please, to demonstrate his ability and his worthiness, had only ever met with indifference, if not vehement disapproval. But at least disapproval was something, and it had fed him, where lassitude had left him empty. It had been his chief nourishment, at a banquet for kings.

And then he had discovered the full extent of his gifts. The magic that had altered his appearance, keeping his true heritage secret from all but his mother and the All-Father, had grown in him, and Frigga had seen and encouraged it. But his all-consuming goal of acceptance from his father grew even more unattainable with this discovery: _seithr_ was not numbered among the manly arts, and so Odin continued to express his displeasure with his second, adoptive, son. Disappointment ripened into bitterness, and Loki's anger at each slight grew, until he no longer desired approval from his father, but mastery over him.

Gone. It was all gone, now. He was mortal, as every Asgardian and Jotunn was in their way, and he had millennia to live, and he had lost even his last comfort, the power that had hidden him, protected him, and served his will, when nothing and no one had looked kindly upon him. Even that last refuge was denied him. Alone with only himself, in his monstrous true form, Loki lay on a rough cot in the tent of a Midgardian witch, whose life was as to him as a mere insect's to her. He was entirely at the mercy of a people whom he had so disdained that he had felt nothing for the myriad deaths resulting from his failed attempt to gain what was his by right, the Asgardian throne.

Barren of emotion, Loki lay in the dark, and closed his eyes on what his life had become.


	8. A Grim Old Place

**Chapter Eight - A Grim Old Place**

Loki awoke to sunlight streaming through the open tent, and the cold, wet imprint of a canine nose at the base of his neck. He shuddered at the sensation, sentencing the owner to an eternity in the Void. Rather than shattering with fear, the creature ventured instead to plant a slobbery tongue on Loki’s face, which resulted in an even louder and more vehement cursing. At this near-shouting, the face of a red-headed man popped in the doorway, observed the scene, and popped back out again, the wretched animal vanishing after him.

Shortly thereafter, the witch appeared, along with the black-haired healer she’d brought to him last night. Their faces were stupidly open and concerned, thoughts impossibly easy to read, neither one betrayed any fear or revulsion. As the significance of this fact dawned on Loki, a gnawing uneasiness spread through him, undermining his scorn with an increasing dread. What power must they possess, if they, lowly beings that they should have been, could look on his monstrosity without so much as blinking?

As in answer to his unposed question, the woman sat on the cot next to him, and held a hand to his forehead, while the man drew out a long carved wand, letting the end of it hover just above what remained of the wound Loki had carried. He didn’t dare to sit up and look himself, but the flesh felt more secure, if still tender. The man nodded satisfactorily, and turned to the woman, who made a similar gesture. As one, they moved to face him.

“You’re making a good recovery, by the look of things,” the man said, replacing the wand up his sleeve. Automatically, he took up Loki’s wrist and laid two fingers just below the joint. “Wherever you’re from, you have a pulse, same as we do, and it feels steadier now than when I first examined you.” Loki looked askance at the man, when he failed to recall the event to which the man referred. “You were unconscious at the time, if that worries you. I wouldn’t expect you to remember.”

“I…yes,” Loki replied, voice cracked and raw with fatigue and disuse.

The woman heaved a relieved sigh. “Oh, good, you can speak again. I’d worried there might be side effects from that creature.”

Loki turned his head slightly, to take in her face. She had dark circles under her eyes, as from a long vigil. He was so slow right now, too slow to be quite himself, but this enforced torpidity had, oddly, given him the time to notice small details. Her pupils dilated and retracted, examining the details of his face with a critical, analytical eye. A fierce and calculating intelligence burned there, behind her eyes, and for a split second there was recognition, for both of them, of that shared quality.

The moment passed as soon as it had come. “I think you could be moved,” came Hermione’s punctilious assessment as she turned to Harry for confirmation. “I imagine you’d prefer to recuperate somewhere a bit more hospitable than the middle of a forest,” she continued, giving Loki a wry look. “Harry has offered to let you stay with him, as he has slightly better accommodations.” A slip of a smile passed between them, and Loki was at once on guard, suspicious. He studied the witch’s face, but found it an incomprehensible mask. 

Then he met Harry’s guileless gaze: No hint, no twinkle of unspoken plan, no flared nostril of disguised contempt, nothing but patient expectation of a response, and a calm, professional interest.  It was enough to reassure Loki, although the feeling did not go so far as trust. “I will accept,” Loki replied, wheezing with the effort of sitting up. As he did so, he felt the support of the woman’s magic, easing the strain of movement for him, though he had made no demand of her. A fleeting thought, of how suitable these two would be as servants, flitted through his mind, and he caught her stare again, haughty and forbidding. No, their abilities were useful, certainly, but they would resist subjugation with every one of those talents. The realization put the thought out of his mind completely.

“Good,” the woman gave a curt nod, though whether to his acceptance of their offer or to his understanding of their nature, he could not tell. “We’ll see how well you move around of your own, to decide on the safest mode of travel.”

The man - Harry - was examining the wound again, and declared it closed enough to attempt standing. “You are healing quite quickly, you know,” he mumbled at Loki’s shoulder, as he placed himself in a position to assist him to his feet, “much faster than I would have expected without potions.” He offered Loki a pale, lightly calloused hand.

For the second time, Loki was arrested by the two Midgardians’ complete lack of hesitation. Here was absolute confidence and security in their own power, and total absence of trepidation of any threat he might pose. These two moved like seasoned warriors, with a decisive grace. And neither would live much more than a century. How had they learned such skill in so little time? In spite of this overwhelming sense of disbelief, Loki kept his expression carefully neutral, pausing only a moment before taking the man’s proffered hand, no intention to actually rely on the healer’s assistance. Instead, he was half-hoisted to his feet, again by a magical force.

After gaining his balance, Loki released Harry’s hand and insisted on walking without help. He grimaced as he gingerly tested out the new connections of muscle and nerve, where that projectile had bored a hole through his body only the day before. Harry and Hermione stood at a small distance, but kept their attention trained on him, in case he should falter. The back of Loki’s mind was having a field day at his expense, deriding his weakness, mocking their overtures of friendship.

When he stepped cautiously out of the tent and into the crisp autumnal air, the other two men, red- and raven-haired, were startled out of intense conversation. The younger, red-headed fellow stared, clearly suspicious, but the raggedy, older man broke into a broad grin, and advanced on Loki in easy strides. “I see they patched you up well, you long lout,” he barked.

Loki suddenly scowled, looking around the campsite in confusion. “That wolf creature,” he snapped. “It isn’t here?” There was a quick exchange of glances, and subdued chuckles from multiple directions. “Why?” Loki growled. “What’s so funny?”

The shaggy, dark-haired man leaned forward, and shook Loki’s hand. “That’s me. Name’s Sirius Black. Pleasure.”

Retrieving his hand from the unwanted grasp, Loki narrowed his eyes to squint at Sirius. Sure enough, as he peered through half-closed lids, he detected a faint glimmer surrounding the man, a shifting, subtle tone of earthy gold, with hints and flashes of brilliant flame red. Startled, he whipped his head around, examining all four of them, and each bore a differently-colored aura of magic. He couldn’t believe that there could be so many Midgardians who possessed magical abilities, and that no one in Asgard knew of this. If they had, no one had seen fit to inform him. His frown deepened. Certainly Frigga would have mentioned such a fact, if it were known.

“How is this possible?” he demanded, turning on the two who had followed him out of the tent. “You, you’re Midgardians,” he ranted, “pathetic, weak creatures with ridiculously short lives. And yet, all four of you possess  _ seithr _ , and wield it with a skill that you could not possibly have achieved in such a span.” 

Their reactions would have been drolly amusing, if Loki hadn’t been on edge. The men stood gaping, for the most part, while the woman Hermione stood in thoughtful, stony silence. 

The red-headed man spoke up belligerently. “Look, I don’t know where you’re from, mate, but if you’ve got magic yourself, and you’re on this planet in the first place, how is it you don’t know about wizards?”

“I am not from this…planet,” Loki hissed, spitting out the last word as if it were venom. 

Harry and Hermione exchanged glances, but it was Sirius who spoke up. “That’s part of what I was trying to explain, Ron. I believe I came here from some…other place, some version of our lives where I didn’t die. I followed this ungrateful wretch here, Merlin help me, and I didn’t stop by Earth on the way. He has to be from another planet, one of the Nine Realms, as Hel called them.”

For a brief moment the color drained from Loki’s face, leaving it the blue-white of a snow-capped peak, but in an instant it went a livid shade of purple. He sputtered with impotent rage before again going deathly quiet and pale. When he spoke, it was with an utterly terrifying calm. “So,” he said, voice barely above a whisper, “I am abandoned.”

Hermione could see Harry was about to pipe up in denial, but she shot him a warning glance, and he subsided. Without a word to him, she took Loki’s arm, and led him to a place by the fire pit where he could sit, and left him there. Pulling the other three aside, she hissed at Harry, “Are you certain you want to do this? You see how difficult this is going to be. This hurt may not heal.”

Harry’s expression was pained, yet determined. “Of course it might not heal. I still have to try.”

Hermione looked at the faces of her three friends. Both Ron and Sirius stood united behind Harry’s grim determination, their loyalty to him overriding even Ron’s suspiciousness. They would none of them leave Harry before the task was seen to its end.

“Good,” she nodded, a slight smile crinkling the corners of her eyes. “You won’t be alone, then.”

Nodding to Loki’s slumped figure, she beckoned them all to take up places around him like the four points of the compass. She knelt in front of Loki, to look in his face. “We need to take you to Harry’s house, it’s safer there. Will you come?”

The fire in the red eyes had fallen, and betrayed no hint of the thoughts behind them. “Do I have a choice?” he said, expression glazed and distant.

Hermione held his gaze, and laid her hand on the back of his. “There is always a choice.”

* * *

In the end, Loki acquiesced, and they Apparated together into the courtyard of Number 13 Grimmauld Place. The ancestral home of the Noble House of Black had been completely uninhabitable when Harry had found himself in want of a place to live after the end of the war. Kreacher had returned to the house after the Battle of Hogwarts, but his stewardship of the place had improved little, since no living person had been in residence. By the time Harry decided to move in, the ancient house-elf looked so brittle and frail that Harry felt it his duty not to ask anything of him at all. When Kreacher asked, he would simply say “I trust your judgment on what should be done.” Kreacher had gotten no other response from him, and so chiefly kept rodents and other vermin from the stores, and drove boggarts and pixies out of the furniture and the drapes.

Shortly thereafter, Kreacher died, imparting his desire to be laid to rest with the generations of house-elves which had served the family. Harry, unable to conscience adding another head to the grisly display in the hall, opted instead to remove the plaque, and bury the preserved heads with the body of the old, faithful servant. 

Doing this proved to be exceedingly difficult, and would have been completely impossible had the house next-door not come up for sale. The elf-heads, like the portrait of Walburga Black, had been attached using a Permanent Sticking Charm, so that no power, Muggle or magic, could remove them from the wall to which they had been fixed. With the fortuitous listing of 13 Grimmauld Place, Hermione had stipulated that, if the elves could not be removed from the wall, then perhaps the wall itself could be taken away. Harry had leapt at the idea, and the purchase was made. 

After ensuring that nothing structural was at risk, the pair of them had set to work, and the plaque had came down with a considerable chunk of plaster behind it. A small pass-through was left in the wall between Numbers 12 and 13, but the protective wards laid down by some Black ancestor or other had remained, gleaming with a faint oily sheen, like a greasy pane of glass between the two houses.

They had buried Kreacher, then, after removing the Preservation Charm that had kept his body from decomposing, along with the plaque - heads, plaster and all. It seemed strangely appropriate to inter part of the house itself with one who had lived in it, and been devoted to its inhabitants, for so long. Their part of the bargain was kept, and Harry called on all his friends to help get the place ready for non-pureblood habitation.

So when Sirius Apparated into the enclosed gardens of Number 13, he assumed Harry had found himself a Muggle place to live. He was astounded, moments later, after walking through the back door of a solid brick row-house into a plain but serviceable kitchen, to see Harry and Hermione open both doors of a huge antique wardrobe, revealing a door that led into another house altogether.  The pair of them ushered Sirius through first, while Ron and a sore and grumbling Loki trailed behind them.

Sirius stepped out into a bright and cheery hall, with a dark, familiar-looking stair winding its way up to his right. Away to the left was a large gathering place, full of mismatched stuffed chairs and oddly-shaped side tables, surrounded by walls of gleaming bookcases. There were two sets of them: the ones towards the back of the room were deep-set and tall, filled with leather-bound volumes, undoubtedly with leaves of parchment or vellum. The shelves on the side wall, to the right, were neater, more compact, and home to many more smaller books, which were variously cloth- or paper-covered, many of which had shiny, if slightly foxed, surfaces.

On the tall windows to the left, painstakingly patched and repaired, were the curtains that had hung in the front room of Grimmauld Place, the house which had never been a home to him.

Amazed, he turned on Harry with a bewildered expression. “Why in the world, of all the things in that wretched old place, would you burden a new house with these ratty, moth-eaten, horrible old drapes?”

Harry stifled a chuckle, and clapped his godfather on the shoulder. “I plan to get rid of them, but I just haven’t gotten around to it yet.” The stunned look on Sirius’s face won him a broad grin. “Welcome back to Number Twelve,” Harry beamed.

“But,” stammered Sirius, “how in the world did you manage this? I thought this place cursed to the core!” He looked at his godson with new eyes, slightly discomfited by the sudden, to him, change in the place that had been such an integral part of his hellish upbringing. “The portrait…” he said, turning around to orient himself to these known, yet unknown, surroundings. He pivoted on the spot, turning automatically to face the door through which they’d come. “That…” he trailed, as understanding dawned.

“We couldn’t counter the Sticking Charm, so we took out the wall instead,” Hermione supplied from the bottom of the stairwell. “It was easy, once we worked it out. The charm only went as far as the edges of the frame, but we cut a door-sized hole just to make certain.”

“It seemed appropriate,” Harry continued, “to make a door to let people in, when Walburga had done her best to keep all but pureblood wizards out.”

At this, Sirius let out sharp bark of laughter, giving a wry grin to his godson. “And into a Muggle house, no less!” he exclaimed, delighted.

“Speaking of letting people in,” Ron chimed, grunting with the effort of supporting the Jotunn, “give us a hand, mate?” The redhead’s face was flushed and sweating.  

Loki’s expression, however, was one of grim determination. Pale and listing heavily to one side, he nonetheless was fighting Ron’s grip on his arm, lurching forward on unsteady feet. His face had gone a sickly slate grey, and he was perspiring as freely as the man who was at least attempting to assist him. His face was closed, eyes distant, as though purposefully looking past the assemblage in front of him. Hermione shot Harry a look, and the two nodded, taking up position on each side of the gangly giant.  
  
“Alright,” Harry said, in tones that brooked no argument, “not much farther to go now. The room next to this one is yours.” He took the man’s left arm, and Hermione took his right. Sirius and Ron hung back and watched as the smallest but most determined people in the room all but frog-marched Loki to the spare bed in the room that had once been the library of the Most Noble House of Black.


	9. Triage

**Chapter 9 - Triage**

Once they had Loki settled in what was, to him, quite a shabby little chamber, the two mages left him alone. Whether they guessed or sensed his reluctance to speak, he neither knew nor cared. Loki had had quite enough of Midgardians already, and would take any respite he could get. How his brother enjoyed the company of these inferior beings, he simply could not fathom. Their concerns were trifling, their entire lives insignificant.

His body ached from the strain the Chitauri device had placed on his system, but he paid that no heed. He was no stranger to pain. Indeed, he had endured far worse than these physical twinges and creaks in the aftermath of most of the battles he'd fought, and there had been more than a few of those. Compared to the loss of his magic, the pain was merely a nuisance; the temporary weakening of his physical state, the most minor of inconveniences. Already his body was healing, growing stronger, but where he would normally tap magical reserves had known to be his for as long as he could remember, he touched instead only a profound and gnawing emptiness which enveloped and consumed him, as though he had both fallen into the Void and swallowed it. Bearing this in the midst of Midgardian mages was doubly galling: he could detect their _seithr_ , and it taunted him, a desert mirage: a trickle of the first snowmelt, in sight, but out of reach. And how terribly he did thirst.

And those inward, unvoiced thoughts cursed him as deserving of such a fate. The Nornir had done this to him, had measured and found him wanting. He was sentenced, condemned, set adrift on Midgard with _seithr_ all around him, where he could sense it clearly but not make use of it.

It was with these ruminations that he stared, unseeing, at the ceiling of his room, until exhaustion finally overcame him.

The four of them gathered in the kitchen, Harry pouring the last of four cups of tea before whisking them over to the center of the long, wooden table, another fixture of Number 12 that he hadn't quite been able to part with. Sitting around it, where so many Order meetings had taken place, usually filled him with a nostalgic sadness, longing for all of his loved ones who were gone. But now, with his godfather sitting across from him, he felt a swell of comfort, and even a bit of hope. The Marauders weren't completely gone, after all.

As tins of ginger and chocolate biscuits crowded themselves around the staunch little teapot and its army of mismatched cups, Harry grabbed the sinfully ugly orange and green hand-thrown mug for himself, gesturing for his friends to help themselves to whatever they fancied. Hermione was standing at the counter, sending over plates of sandwiches. "Mine's the china cat," she called, and Sirius and Ron took the two remaining cups, Sirius choosing a chipped ivory teacup with ornate scrollwork, leaving Ron with a battered mug emblazoned "The World's Best Blank".

They sat in comparative silence for a short while, listening to the sounds of quiet chewing punctuated by the clink of spoons. By the time the teapot went around to pour a second cup, they'd begun to revive somewhat from the previous night's long watch. Harry's eyes looked a bit less sunken, and Ron's mood had perked up considerably. Sirius was still haggard, as he had been when he'd fallen through the Veil, but his eyes were alight again. Hermione took a long pull from her horrid pink china cup, where the depiction of a tiny silver mackerel tabby danced rather clumsily through an ornately painted ballroom. She glanced at it, and a self-satisfied almost-smile flickered across her face, before she turned her attention to the three men.

"So, I know as much of the story as you do," she began, hands folded on the table in front of her, looking at each of them in turn, "but what do we actually know about this Loki? What is wrong with him? He was obviously a powerful wizard, but it looks like his magic was drained by that device, or creature, or whatever it was." Her gaze alighted on Harry, and the other two men followed suit. "What do you think, Harry? How bad is it?"

Harry rubbed the back of his neck, frowning. "His injuries are extensive, but how much is purely physical, or a result of the direct attack on his magical system, for lack of a better term, is difficult to say. The wound itself is healing rapidly already, and may improve more once we determine if any potions are safe for him to take. His magic is definitely gone. That kind of complete loss takes a toll beyond the physical and mental. It's spiritual devastation, and the knowledge of that alone…" his voice trailed off, the grimace on his face finishing the thought for him.

Ron and Hermione nodded in understanding, but Sirius was motionless for a moment. "Yes," he said at length, "we definitely know where that kind of deprivation leads." His face was pensive, expression grave. "And I'd only lost my wand, then. If I had been completely cut off from all magic, I don't believe I'd have survived a year in Azkaban."

Harry nodded his agreement. "I'm good with the physical ailments, but I can't treat just his body, and leave mind or spirit damaged." He looked around the table at them, worry plain on his face. "I know I can count on all of you, but I still think we're going to need help."

Ron leaned forward on the table, hands folded in front of him. His expression was neutral, voice even and calm. "We're with you, Harry," the Auror said, "but you need to be careful about who you trust with this – we're treading dangerous ground with the Statute of Secrecy as it is." The red-headed man glanced briefly over his shoulder, out of habit more than necessity, but the movement betrayed his worry, even if his voice did not. "I doubt the Ministry would do much to you if word got out, but I can't promise that all of us would be above scrutiny," Ron said, pointedly not looking at Hermione or Sirius.

Harry's forehead creased with his frown, confronted with the realization that he had, again, committed himself to something dangerous, to himself and to his friends, without a full comprehension of the possible repercussions. Hermione's tendency to make waves had not endeared her to any administration, and although Kingsley was still Minister of Magic, and a friend, he couldn't protect her indiscriminately the way he could protect Harry. Ron's position in Magical Law Enforcement helped him somewhat, but Hermione's status as an independent scholar offered her no such safeguards. She would _probably_ be okay, but he hated to make her life more difficult in any respect. Sirius's safety, however, depended almost entirely upon secrecy. The sudden reappearance of Harry's godfather's was another bit of information to keep under tight rein, for the entirety of the foreseeable future. Harry scrubbed his face with his hands, fighting off both fatigue and the fear of endangering his friends because he couldn't simply allow someone's fate to befall them.

Hermione's hand came to rest lightly on Harry's arm, and her eyes were full of compassionate reproach. "Harry," she chided in a tone that hovered between fond and flippant, "you are not allowed to kick yourself because we decided to support you in this. In case you had forgotten, we aren't schoolchildren anymore." Her wry smile turned playfully self-deprecating. "Some of us are a bit nearer forty than we used to be, and completely capable of deciding for ourselves whether or not to take a risk for a relative stranger."

"Oi!" Ron exclaimed in mock-irritation, "since when are thirty and thirty-one 'nearer forty'?" He gave Hermione a playful glare, but when she just looked at him strangely, his expression turned thoughtful. "Wait," he said, hesitating, "how much do you use that time-turner, exactly?"

Hermione just rolled her eyes. "Not as much in third year, but enough. I may be thirty-one according to the calendar, but my experience is...somewhat longer than that." She shook her head as if to clear it. "My age, apparent or otherwise, is irrelevant. What we can do to help Loki, and who we have to call on for that help, is at issue here."

It was Sirius's turn to speak up. "Ron's right, Harry. Whomever we bring into this, we have to be absolutely certain of their loyalties and their discretion. Which brings us back to the beginning: What kind of help is Loki going to need? Do we even know anyone with the necessary skills?"

Harry considered this for a moment, assessing each of them in turn. "Two things we need," he said at length, "that we can't do between the four of us: determining whether or not his magic will come back, and determining the extent of his mental and emotional damage. I'm good with the physical, but I am right rubbish at handling the rest. There are experts in the latter at St. Mungo's, sure, but no one I know well enough to trust with a situation this delicate. As for the former, I can't think of anyone at all."

Hermione nodded, as if expecting this. "There are very few publications on the loss of magic at all, let alone any living authorities on the subject. What I have run across before is mostly mediaeval texts, but current scholarship seems completely disinterested."

"Something else we need," Ron interjected, "is someone to watch him." Harry turned towards him, skeptical, and Hermione's expression narrowed. Ron continued, unperturbed. "Even if he's not dangerous himself, Harry, you can't spend all night and all day taking care of this bloke, even if you do take time off work, and even between three people, that's a lot of work." Ron leaned back in his chair, resting the back of his head in his cupped hands. "And you're going to need someone who knows Potions backwards and forwards, if you're gonna try and feed any to him."

Hermione leaped at this, eyes brightening. "You have someone in mind," she said, and Ron's wry smirk told her she'd read him correctly. "I know exactly who to ask," she chortled, catching Harry's enthusiastic grin.

"I think I do, too," he confirmed, green eyes twinkling. "Luna will be perfect."

"Yes, Nev…" Hermione began, before realizing what Harry had said. "Wait, Luna?" She looked at Ron, who merely shrugged.

"We could use both of them, honestly," he replied amiably. "Neville's the one you want for knowing how to use any kind of plants and potions, nothing gets past Luna, and they're both completely trustworthy."

Hermione still looked skeptical, but Harry's grin remained firmly in place. "If they'd do it, that'd be brilliant," he enthused. "I can Floo over to Luna, and you can get Nev, right Ron?" The red-headed man rumbled his assent, so Harry forged ahead, smile fading. "Loki's magic, though," he sighed, rubbing a hand over his mouth and chin. "I can't help feeling like that's the most crucial element, though - giving the patient hope, if there is any, or the truth, if there isn't. I hate not knowing, and I won't lie to give anyone false hope." He looked around the table at them, eyes frank and worried. "Is there anything we can do, anyone - anywhere - we can even ask, to try and find out?"

Hermione shook her head. "No one I know of in Britain is studying this at all, at least not in academic circles. I have a couple of contacts in Salem I can ask, but the Americans are notoriously close-lipped when it comes to research."

"What about east, then?" Harry prodded. "Do you still keep in touch…"

"With Viktor?" she filled in, chewing her lip for a moment. "We're still on good terms, though I'm not certain I could ask any favors. He's pretty well connected, of course, but I can't make any promises."

Ron shifted uncomfortably in his chair, immediately drawing the attention of the other three. His eyebrows crinkled together in a slightly sheepish expression, one quite familiar to anyone who had known him as a teenager. When their stares grew expectant, he cleared his throat and spoke. "I might know someone," he hedged, leveling a pointed glance at Harry, "but you're not going to like it."


	10. Perplexity

**Chapter 10** **  
** **Perplexity**

* * *

 

“ _Why?_ ” Harry demanded, the delighted twinkle in his eye sharpening into wariness. “ _What_ exactly am I not going to like?”

Ron heaved a gusty sigh, clasping his hands in front of him on the table. “Look, Harry,” he said, “I’m not even sure how much I can tell you, but I think I know someone who might be able to...to find something out.” Ron’s face took on the sheepish look usually reserved for when he was about to get in trouble with his mother. “Technically I’m not even supposed to know what this person does, so I’ll have to get their say-so before I can even tell you who it is.”

Harry’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, and Sirius sat back in his chair. Hermione’s expression tightened, eyes narrowed. Ron focused resolutely on Harry, but only after flicking a nervous glance at Hermione. “It’s up to you, whether I ask or not,” Ron plowed ahead, not waiting for anyone’s verbal objection. “But you know I’d never risk this, not if I had the slightest reservation about...this person.”

“There is someone you trust that implicitly?” Sirius interjected, disbelief coloring his features.

“Yes,” Ron said, without hesitation.

Harry and Hermione exchanged a look, wordlessly coming to an agreement. Sirius watched the two of them, admiring the unshakeable confidence built between the members of the Golden Trio. Finally he turned to Ron, nodding his head in assent.

“Okay,” Ron said, leaning briefly back in his chair before rising from the table. “I’ll have to do this in person,” he said, striding over to where they’d hung up their cloaks. “Apparition wards are still up for the house, right, Harry?” he queried, swinging his cloak about his shoulders.

“Yeah,” Harry replied, “back garden’s what you want.”

Ron grunted his approval and turned to make his way out. One pace from the door he turned and asked, “Oh, can someone else contact Neville, then? Not sure how long this will take.”

“Certainly,” Hermione piped up immediately. Ron gave a quick nod and strode out of the house.

 

* * *

 

A soft tread approached, creaking slightly as it hesitated at the threshold to his room. There was a hushed exchange, followed by a gentle rap on the heavy oak door. He recognized the voice of the witch who had found him, in frantic whispered conversation with one of the other mages. Another knock on the door, more forceful this time, and it swung slowly open, revealing the anxious face of the dark-haired healer. The witch hung back in the doorway, expression guarded. The healer made a harsh noise in his throat, which Loki disdained to acknowledge, instead staring straight ahead, watching them out of his peripheral vision.

The pair in the doorway exchanged a look, and the healer made the noise again, this time choosing to speak afterwards. “Loki,” he said, voice level, “may I come in?”

The Asgardian turned a languid eye on the pair of them, focusing on the man’s hesitant face with carefully constructed apathy. The curly-haired witch hovered just behind, tension radiating off her, brown speckled nose twitching once or twice in agitation. Loki noticed the healer’s face again wore that slightly bemused expression, the barest hint of a smile playing at the corner of his mouth, hovering between wry amusement and fond remembrance.

“Loki,” he repeated, more insistent this time, “may I come in?”

Loki’s mask of practiced boredom did not slip, despite the fact his patience with these _people_ was running perilously short. With a quick exhalation he muttered, “If you must,” before rolling his head back over onto his pillow, eyes fixed on the ceiling once more.

He heard the witch’s exasperated huff, and a half-chuckle low in the man’s throat, before their twin footsteps sounded on the floorboards. His long, easy strides came around to the far side of the bed, whereas her quick steps soon stopped as she took up position between Loki and the door. Loki watched them out of his peripheral vision, refusing to make eye contact, although they had both trained their full attention on his face.

“This is where things stand,” he said, pulling up an armchair to sit next to the bed. “Physically, your condition is stable, as you likely already knew yourself. You are healing well, we think, but very slowly. There may be potions we could give you, for pain and to speed the healing process, but since you are, well, not of this planet, I’m hesitant to administer them, based on my knowledge alone.”

Loki gave him a shrewd glance out of the corner of his eye, but the man still showed no signs of dishonesty. Slowly he turned his head to consider the man, who met his gaze straight on, completely unperturbed. A long second passed before Loki gave a barely perceptible nod, indicating the man should continue.

“That is to say,” he continued, taking off his spectacles and beginning to clean them with a small cloth as he spoke, “I think we could use some potions, but I’m not certain myself how safe they would be for you. I know a wizard, though, who would know better than I do. Hermione is going to call him, to see what he can do for you.”

Loki’s lips pressed into a thin disapproving line. The idea of being subjected to even more Midgardians was displeasing, if not downright discomfiting. The witch caught the hint of a scowl, and even though he was masking his thoughts as much as he could, her expression mirrored his in the next instant. Her frown was enough to convince Loki that he needed to play things as close with these...mages... as he did with his father.

The wizard - Harry, he suddenly remembered - had continued on, although whether he was purposefully ignorant or unintentionally oblivious of Loki’s displeasure, the Asgardian did not know. He was apparently prattling on about this wizard’s skills and intuition, and the supposed “benefit” his presence on Loki’s “case” ought to provide. If these two insisted on assisting him with his recovery, then Loki had every intention of using their apparent altruism, however puny their efforts might be, to his advantage.

Loki’s attention was drawn back to the conversation when the wizard, Harry, cleared his throat somewhat uncomfortably, and began “Now, about your magic…”

For the first time, the man’s demeanor changed from calmly professional to hesitant, even somewhat awkward. Loki recognized the mien as that of a bearer of bad tidings. Loki’s nostrils flared, eyes flicking from witch to wizard and back again, searching for any sign of duplicity or hidden motive. The wizard was, as always, completely transparent, his eyes displaying unhappy uncertainty for anyone who looked at them. The witch, on the other hand, was on high alert, steely gaze very like that of Lady Sif, as though some injustice was being perpetrated that she was keen to stop.

“It’s…” Loki breathed, and then stopped, unwilling to give voice to the outcome he feared and expected most. He took a deep breath, fixed his eyes on the witch, and began again. “You think it’s gone.”

She held his gaze and gave him the unflinching reply. “We don’t know,” she said simply. “There may be someone who can help, but until we know, there is nothing we can do.”

 _So_ , Loki thought, and the tension which had been coiling in his gut was suddenly replaced with a lump of gnawing cold that spread like icy venom through his veins, leaving unfeigned lethargy in its wake.

“We didn’t want to give you false hope,” the wizard cut in, expression deepening into concern, “but I hope you don’t give up entirely. Your magic may yet reassert itself, given enough time. I can’t detect any yet, but your magical signature is, shall we say, unusual...it may be that we simply can’t detect it properly.”

At this the witch’s frown reappeared, but she didn’t contradict the wizard. Instead, she sat down on the edge of the bed and pushed a small metallic object into Loki’s hand. The movement startled him out of his stupor, and he looked at it in confusion.

“What is this?” he queried, turning the thing over in his hand. It was a rectangular device of a silvery color, with a raised white ring slightly to one side, inscribed with odd, blocky symbols.

“Long recuperation is tiresome for anyone,” Hermione said as she pulled a small coil of white cord out of her pocket. “This should help you endure it, at least somewhat.” Loki watched as she unrolled the coil, and attached the silver bob at one end to the device he held, and laid the other ends of the white strands in his hand. Completely unsure how to proceed, he gave a slight frown.

Hermione’s mouth turned up at one corner, in an expression so mixed Loki couldn’t place it. “Don’t worry,” she said, “it’s a Muggle device, for playing music,” she said, pointing out the ‘buttons’ on the device. “Circle in the middle to stop or start, arrows right and left to skip forward or backward, plus and minus at top and bottom to raise or lower the volume. These,” she finished, picking up the slightly bulbous ends of the white cord she’d attached to it, “go in your ears.”

Loki frowned again, skeptically, but perched the bulbs cautiously in his ears. They rested there comfortably enough. Hermione gave a curt nod of approval before he removed them again. She sat at the bedside in silence only for a moment longer, before taking his hands in hers, closing them around the gift and giving them a swift, reassuring pat.

Without another word, she rose from her seat and slipped out of the room.

Brows furrowed in exasperation, Loki turned to the wizard, who was again wearing an expression of barely suppressed amusement. “And how, precisely,” Loki seethed, “is this supposed to help?”

The dark-haired man shrugged, a nonchalant gesture which only served to heighten Loki’s annoyance. “I don’t know,” he admitted, “but if I know Hermione, there’s an excellent chance that it will.”

  



	11. Meetings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A special bonus for you, my AO3 readers: two chapters in two consecutive days! When I went to update chapter 11 (a day early), I discovered I hadn't posted Chapter 10 yet! Shame on me! You are now as caught up as my FFN readers. ❤
> 
> I'm very sorry to say that Chapter 12 will not be appearing tomorrow. I will be back on a monthly update schedule, unless/until I build up a reserve of chapters to post - in which case I will reassess. 
> 
> As always, thank you for your page hits, kudos, and comments. They are lovely and encouraging, and can revive my enthusiasm for this story to an amazing degree. ❤
> 
> Oh, and on a different note: the second half of this chapter (Loki's POV) has been beta'd by the delightful @barton-no (Tumblr). You're the best!

**Chapter 11**

**Meetings**

Not long after, the whoosh of the Floo echoed in from the kitchen of Number 12 Grimmauld place. Just as Hermione and Harry reached the bottom of the stairs, a baritone rumble sounded from the other end of the room, accompanied by the sound of hands brushing off soot. “Harry? I'm here. Hermione? What's....”

They rounded the corner just in time to see Neville's look of surprise at Sirius, who was sitting with his feet propped up at the other end of the long table, grinning like a loon. Neville just stood there, not quite gaping, until Harry strode over and clapped his friend on the back. “Hermione told you we had another visitor, yeah?” he grinned, while Neville adjusted to the sight before him.

“She didn't, actually,” he admitted, “but she did say I should be prepared for anything.” Neville nodded his head bewilderedly, then exhaled, shaking off his amazement. “Not that I thought 'back from the dead' would be part of that 'anything',” he commented.

Sirius's smile twisted into a wry smirk. “Oh,” he hinted, “it gets better.”

Neville's eyebrows shot up, but before he could question him further, the fireplace again flared green, and Luna stepped out of the flames. To Sirius' recollection she was much unchanged, except that, like Harry and Hermione, her face had lost all of the round softness of childhood. She was still a diminutive little thing, small enough that when Harry gave her a friendly squeeze, his arm came to rest atop her shoulders. Neville, on the other hand, now towered more than a few inches above the rest of them, standing nearly a foot higher than the tiny blonde. He’d been an awkward teen when Sirius had last seen him, on the cusp of growing into himself, and grow into himself he had. If he hadn’t been of such a retiring disposition, he would have cut quite an imposing figure, his shoulders now quite broad atop a solidly built frame. The contrast between the two new arrivals could not have been more stark.

As if to emphasize this very thought, Luna turned her lamp-like eyes on him with a mild, serene expression: the only indicator that she noticed Sirius at all was the slight raising of her eyebrows. “Thank you for inviting me,” she said, slipping her arm around Harry's waist to return the half-hug. “I will be glad to help your new friend.”

At this pronouncement, Harry and Hermione exchanged a look. “I'm not certain anyone would call us 'friends',” Harry remarked with a wry expression. “He's a patient.”

Luna gave them both a serene yet knowing look. “For now,” she mused, without further explanation.

After greetings and re-introductions were given all round, Harry began puttering in the kitchen, while Hermione and Sirius filled Neville and Luna in on their strange visitor, and the events that had led to him being under Harry's care in Grimmauld Place. When all had been explained, Neville let out a dry chuckle in amazement. “Astonishing,” he breathed, shaking his head in wonder.

Sirius shot Neville a mischievous grin. “I meant it, didn't I?”

Neville gave a soft laugh in agreement. “I should have expected it, really,” he smiled, casting a sidelong look at Hermione. “I mean, if it's at all extraordinary, the Golden Trio will find a way to be involved.”

Hermione just rolled her eyes. “If you hadn't figured that out by second year, Neville,” she commented dryly, “I would have sent you to St. Mungo's to have all your senses tested.”

Neville flushed a little at her serious expression, but then he caught the twinkle in her eye. “Ought to have sent all of the professors and prefects in then,” he teased, smile broadening, “since they never once caught you three  _ before _ you'd gotten into trouble. Right useless, the lot of them.”

At this, Hermione's mouth quirked in a wry half-smile. “We were rather obvious, weren't we?” A brief flicker of fond reminiscence flitted across her face, and she placed a hand on Neville's arm. “Well, thank you for coming,” she said, solemn expression taking in both Neville and Luna, “we need all the help we can get.”

The savory aroma of cooking beef and herbs began to waft in from the kitchen, and both Sirius' and Hermione's stomachs rumbled in response. “I think I know what kind of help you two need at the moment,” Neville chuckled as they stuck their heads into the alcove where Harry was pulling a steaming glass dish out of an oven. The rich scent was stronger now, and Harry put down the pan to pick up his wand, making shooing motions at the bundle of faces suddenly blocking his exit. The four of them scattered as Harry levitated the piping hot dish across the room, where it settled on top of a heat pad in the middle of the table. Piles of plates, forks, and spoons followed, laying themselves out in front of the five nearest chairs.

“Harry, you never cease to astound,” Sirius commented happily as everyone took their seats around the table. He wafted the rising steam from the crock towards him, breathing in deeply. “Why,” he said giving his godson an impish wink, “this smells nearly good enough to eat!”

“You don't think I spent all those years cooking for the Dursleys without learning something, did you?” Harry teased, while levering out a portion of shepherd's pie for each of them. “Besides,” he said, smile taking on a misty sadness, “I learned kitchen witchery from the best.”

“Molly, you mean, surely,” Sirius said, suddenly concerned. He turned a worried eye on Hermione. “She...you didn't say anything about her before. She's not...” his voice fell away, sorrow pinching his face.

Everyone else at the table looked saddened, but Harry shook his head firmly. “No,” he reassured his godfather, “she's still alive. She's just...”

“Things have been difficult for her,” Hermione interjected, brown eyes full of sorrow. “In the final battle, we lost Fred. That was the first blow to her spirit, and she never fully recovered,” she continued. “Things weren't ever quite right after that. She seemed to be improving, but then Arthur passed last year, rather suddenly. His heart, they thought,” she sighed, clearly pained for the family who had virtually adopted them all, “and between that and Percy, it was too much...too much grief,” she finished in a harsh whisper.

“Percy?” Sirius questioned, clearly discomposed by the litany of trouble which had been visited upon the Weasleys.

“Percy the prat,” Hermione spat, arms folding over her chest in a fit of temper. “He never really came back around, even after...”

“He tried,” Harry interrupted, laying a gentle hand on Hermione's arm, and her ire visibly subsided. The moment that passed between them was one of an argument that had long ago been talked out, left unresolved by mutual agreement.

Sirius watched the pair of them for a moment longer, before shaking his head sadly. “Family,” he sighed, “hardest people in the world to live with, in far too many cases. Especially when you're not who they expect you to be.” His shaggy head came to rest on his hand, cheek leant in his open palm. His eyes met Harry's, who nodded. “Yes,” Sirius confirmed, “I can see that story from both sides, too. Great expectations,” he mused, idly tracing lazy circles with his fork in the gravy on his plate, “set everyone up for disappointment. I couldn't say who's right, or who's more unhappy – parent or child.”

In the silence that followed, Luna spoke up for the first time during the meal. “The one with the fewest allies, of course.”

Hermione scowled a bit at this, but detected no malice from Luna, either in voice or face. She was simply looking past Sirius' head, towards the stairs. Not for the first time, Hermione wondered if Luna was talking about the same thing as the rest of them. 

Without a word, the younger woman took the full dish in front of her, stood, and ascended the stair, never taking her eyes off that same point in the distance.

The rest of the table exchanged a look. Sirius gave each the younger people in the room an inquiring look, but Harry shook his head. “It's fine,” he said without further explanation. “Luna just operates a little differently, is all.” 

Hermione let out a tiny sigh, but refrained from commenting. Neville gave her a sympathetic nod, and the tension in her shoulders relaxed somewhat. “I’m not certain who I’m more concerned for, but you’re right, Harry,” she relented. “Luna can handle herself.”

With that the odd mood passed, leaving the four of them nothing else to do but finish their meal in silence.

* * *

Loki listened to the voices of the Midgardians as they descended the stair, away from his room, leaving him at last in solitude. When he was rid of the last echoes of their tedious company, he waited for some feeling - of calm, if not relief - to wash over him, but it didn’t come. Instead, it lay far off, like an ebbing tide. He felt as distant now as when he had fallen through the Void, without connection or tether to prevent him straying too far. It was the worst kind of freedom for something like him.

He’d been mindlessly turning over the device in his hand for a considerable time, the tangle of wires abandoned on the bedside table. The slim metal form felt entirely inert, a dead thing devoid of energy or purpose. When he'd been around Midgardian technology before, in Stark's tower and on SHIELD’s flying fortress, the pulse of lightning coursing through even the smallest, most mundane items had been unmistakable: even when they were inactive, the power lay quietly in wait, humming in its agitation to be let loose. Now, he could discern nothing, neither from the tiny device nor from anything else in the room, not even from the room itself. The walls of every other place he'd been on Midgard had been overflowing with the same crackling energy, but now he could not detect it. The entire world was muted, closed off to him in a way he had never experienced. Without his magic, he may as well have been back in prison in Asgard. 

A tread on the stair followed by the rattle of crockery startled him into awareness again. The door creaked open, and Loki looked up to see the tiniest Midgardian he had yet to encounter. Her pale locks lay perfectly straight, falling far past her shoulders, except on her left side, where she had both a pencil and (presumably) a wand tucked behind her ear. Dangling from that ear, hanging from a wire that was poked through the lobe, was some sort of root vegetable in a violent shade of purple. The face, of which he only saw hints in partial profile, was as pale as her hair, the color of new milk, with the faintest tinge of pink in her cheeks. Her figure, which Loki, to his surprise, found not displeasing, would not allow her to be mistaken for a child, despite her stature. She was pleasantly rounded yet delicate, swathed as she was in a pale yellow frock, shoulders draped in a large, lacy shawl. She moved with a slight sway, as though lilting along to music which he could not hear. Deft hands were arranging a small earthenware bowl, a glass goblet, a carafe of the same material filled with a clear liquid, and a number of metal utensils on the tray she had apparently brought in with her, while a toothsome aroma rose from the covered dish in the center. 

Loki noticed with a start that she wasn’t carrying the tray, but that it was levitating in front of her, floating gently through the air and growing sturdy legs just before coming to rest just over his lap. He cast a suspicious eye first on the contents of the tray, then on its bearer. The witch remained next to his bed, standing quietly to the side, with an air of complete calm. He looked her full in the face, examining her expression, especially her large, half-lidded eyes. She gave a slow blink, but betrayed no reaction, either to him or his scrutiny. 

Loki frowned, silently dismissing her as some sort of mentally deficient servant. When she made no move to either serve him or depart, he remarked caustically, “You were perhaps waiting for an invitation to join me?”

Suddenly the woman’s face broke into a dazzling smile, her eyes shimmering with delight. “I would be happy to!” she exclaimed, and in an instant she had settled herself cross-legged on the end of the bed, in the space between his feet. Her skirts spread out like a cloud around her, blossoming with panels of bright oranges and golds which had not been visible while she stood.

In the face of his speechless astonishment she merely smiled, pulling her wand from behind her ear to speak an incantation at the dining tray, which expanded to the size of a small table, upon which appeared another small dish and goblet, and an additional fork and spoon. The contents of the covered dish appeared at first to be simply a heap of fluffy white vegetable which smelled suspiciously like the jacket potatoes which had been his last recollected meal. 

Loki watched warily as, of its own accord, the largest spoon cut through the lightly browned crust, revealing a thick, meaty gravy underneath, flecked with herbs. The spoon served up heaping scoops of the stuff, first into his bowl then into hers, while the carafe dispensed a transparent liquid into each of their cups. She first took her glass and, eyes never leaving Loki’s, took a drink. Hesitantly he reached for his own goblet, long blackened claws scraping harshly against the glass as he struggled to take it up without breaking it. 

Wincing, he looked up at his unexpected dinner companion, but her expression remained placidly calm, betraying no sign of irritation at the grating noise he’d created. He took a long draught from the goblet, and frowned. Simple water, but purer than he’d had anywhere else, even on Asgard. It tasted of fresh snowmelt. 

The girl was watching him now, one thin eyebrow quirked at him, vacuous manner gone. The focus she had turned on him was nowhere as hard as that Granger woman’s, but her attention was enough of a contrast to the dreamy state she’d been in upon entering the room that Loki involuntarily twitched an eyebrow in return. There was no challenge in her eyes, only a quiet contemplation of which he was, undoubtedly, the subject. 

Having no desire to elicit conversation, he set down the goblet and took up a morsel from the steaming dish with a fork. He put it to his lips, and, gingerly took a taste. The potatoes were more certainly present, although there was a sharp, slightly sweet root flavor intermingled with them. The thick, savory sauce surrounding the finely chopped meat was a deep brown, and dotted with tidbits of clear gold, bright orange, and crunchy green. More vegetables, he presumed. So far, Midgardian food hadn’t disagreed with him, so it wasn’t long before Loki gave over to his baser needs, handily polishing off the portion of food on his plate long before his dinner companion had made noticeable progress on hers.

Before he could say a word, the crock spooned out a second helping for him, which he began to consume with less haste than the first. This more leisurely pace allowed Loki an opportunity to observe the puny Midgardian who had inveigled herself into his solitude. Such a small creature she was, nestled cross-legged between his calves, and no wonder - she had yet to eat more than about a third of that first serving. Her face had taken on that dreamy cast again, the fork twisting idly in the fingers of her left hand, expression so distant that Loki began to wonder if she’d forgotten entirely how to feed herself. It certainly seemed plausible, now that the flicker of perceptiveness he had seen just moments previous had dissolved once again into a placid, unperturbed stare. Loki just quirked an eyebrow when she leveled that stare at him.

“You’re right, you know,” she said simply, and went back to eating her meal. 

“I’m...what?” Loki stammered, perplexed. 

“That I forget how to eat,” the woman replied, as though they’d been conversing all this time. “It doesn’t seem to matter how long it’s been, I don’t always remember. But my friends remind me, when I need it.” She nodded her head forward slightly, grey eyes earnest. “I thought you might need that, too.”

Loki’s jaw clenched as suspicion and confusion warred for control of his reactions. As usual, his temper won. “What would you have that I could possibly need?” he spat.

The woman cocked her head, seeming to ponder this. “I have always found it quite surprising,” she said at length, “to discover what was necessary to survive just after someone was kind enough to provide it.”

With that the fork dropped from Loki’s hand and fell, clinking dully against the small electric device that had been lying unnoticed in his lap. He looked down at the thing curiously, then back up at the blonde witch. That perceptive look was back, although this time she was squinting at him, as though trying to discern some minuscule detail. “Yes,” she said, voice contemplative, “you do have quite the infestation of Nargles, as well. Perhaps we should speak of this later, once they’ve cleared out.”

Without waiting for him to reply, she stood. Drawing the wand out from behind her ear, she wordlessly banished her own empty goblet and dishes, and made the tray shrink back to its previous size. Seeming to take no more notice of him she departed, walking out with the same, serene gait as when she’d come. 

Just as she reached the doorway, she paused, looking over back at him over her shoulder. “I’m Luna, by the way. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”


	12. Chapter 12 - Provenance

**Chapter 12**

**Provenance**

Downstairs in the kitchen, the awkward silence which had followed Luna's exit had gradually relaxed into a prandial murmur, with the exchange of pleasantries and compliments eventually giving rise to renewed conversation.

By the time she returned, the group around the table had grown from four to six. Ron had come back as well, apparently bringing Ginny with him. They had pulled up the chairs across from Sirius, who was again relating the story of how he'd come back from beyond the Veil. Ginny sat solemn-faced, giving very little reaction beyond the occasional nod of understanding. Luna drifted closer to the conversation, taking a seat next to Ginny at the table. The redhead leaned back slightly to help draw Luna's chair towards the table as she sat.

Once Sirius had finished his tale, Harry leaned forward with his hands clasped in front of him. "So, now you're all caught up," he said as they turned toward him, "we need a plan of action." His brow wrinkled, and he rubbed his temple in thought. "For as long as he'll allow it, I'm Loki's Healer, but since we're dealing with someone who's a magical non-human, there are a lot of places I could go wrong. Which is why I need all of you," he explained, resting his chin in his hand. "First thing," he continued after a moment's consideration, swiveling a bit to face Luna, "did he manage to eat or drink at all?"

"It was a lovely meal," she replied, smiling serenely at him, before her eyes took on a more distant expression. "The water surprised him, I think."

The look that Ron shot Hermione was a skeptical one, at least until Ginny elbowed him sharply in the ribs.

Harry, completely unperturbed by Luna's response, continued. "Right," he said, nodding, "if he's taking in both fluids and solids, he's clearly recovering - physically, at least. Still, I'd like to be able to help that along magically, and not make him go through the whole thing the Muggle way. Unfortunately, I don't know what - if anything - would work for him."

"Besides," Hermione added, "There's the chance any potion we gave him might actually harm, rather than heal."

"Exactly," he said, "but that's why we've asked you here, Neville."

Neville's mouth wrinkled in a frown, but he made no demur. "I'll help in any way I can," he responded earnestly, "although I'm not entirely sure how. It's not what potions I can brew, because between you and Hermione, I'm certain you have that sorted."

Harry rolled his eyes. "That'd be Hermione doing the potions, not me. I'm still rubbish at them, anyway."

Hermione huffed lightly at this self-deprecation, but didn't comment on it. "I can do quite a lot with the ingredients and the right recipe," she said, "but you have a sense of most of the potions ingredients themselves."

Neville's eyebrows raised in understanding. "So, what were you thinking?" he asked, suddenly fully engaged in his subject. "Testing him, to see which plants were safe?"

"I thought of that," Hermione replied, "but I wasn't sure about starting that without any guidance. I'd hate to pick something at random, only to have it cause irreparable damage."

Somberly, Neville concurred. "Yes, I see your point," he said, brows knitted with concentration, "but how would we even go about finding out? You said he's an alien - so even the most harmless thing, to us, could be dangerous to him."

At this, Harry's mouth fell open. "Oh, Merlin," he exclaimed, hand getting halfway to his mouth as though to cover it, "I gave him food, completely without thinking. I could have killed him!"

Hermione laid a calming hand on Harry's arm. "He hasn't dropped dead of shepherd's pie poisoning, Harry. I'm...watching him," she hesitated, casting a quick glance in the direction of Loki's room, "and I can assure you, he's fine. And I fed him jacket potatoes before that, so if there had been any danger in those, I'd have said. Besides," she reassured him, "I'm fairly certain Earth isn't entirely foreign to him. I believe his people may have been to Earth already."

Ron's already grim frown deepened. "You mean aliens like him have already been on the planet? Great blue chaps with flaming red eyes? Complete with horns and claws?" he scoffed, disbelievingly. "I mean, wouldn't people have noticed?"

"It is possible," Hermione insisted. "It may even be probable. He looked a lot more like us when he arrived, after all. Plus, his name is  _Loki_. That's from the Old Norse pantheon. There's a chance his people were here ages ago, and either influenced a few groups of people in Scandinavia, or were influenced by them. If that is the case," she concluded, "then Loki might know about it."

"If he can confirm that," Neville jumped in, "then potions ingredients native to Scandinavia might be a place to begin."

"Depending on when that was," Hermione piped up, "there could also be more regions than just Scandinavia." She shook her head, clearing it. "Still, we're getting ahead of ourselves," she said, giving Neville a meaningful look. "We don't know any of this, yet."

Neville was nodding slowly. He looked over at Harry, who, clearly pleased with this development, was also fidgeting a bit. "You know, Harry," Neville said, somewhat apologetically, "if you don't need me or Hermione right now, maybe we should go ahead and speak with Loki. The sooner we get started," he trailed off with a small shrug.

Harry's gaze shifted from Neville to Ron and back again. "Yeah, sure," he said, looking more than a bit relieved. "Just let me know what you find out. We'll muddle along."

Hermione barely disguised an eyeroll as she stood from the table. "I'm ready when you are," she said to Neville, who got up and followed her up the stairs.

At the same time, Sirius stretched his arms up in his seat, audible cracks sounding from both himself and the chair. "Harry," he half yawned, "that was a delicious feast of a meal, and if I don't rouse myself from this place and move around a bit, I'm in danger of falling asleep where I sit." The older man clapped his thighs and stood, shaking out his shoulders and further stretching his back. "I don't suppose," he appealed to Luna and Ginny, "that you two young ladies would be willing to escort this old dog out to the back garden? I could use a bit of fresh air and sunshine, while it lasts."

Luna brightened visibly, smiling. "Of course, Sirius," she said, taking Ginny's hand, "that would be lovely." She glided to her feet, bringing the redhead with her.

Ginny's expression lost its hard edge, although she gave her brother a quick sharp look before answering Sirius herself. "I wouldn't mind some time outside myself," she replied, ushering the older man out of the kitchen and up the stair.

Left alone at the table, Harry and Ron sat in silence until the last of their friends' footsteps had faded into nothing. In the stillness of the otherwise unoccupied room, Ron huffed a chuckling sigh. "Harry, mate," he said, shaking his head at the man across from him, "you are the most transparent human being I've ever met. How are you going to hide the presence of an alien in your own house, when you can't even keep a poker face in front of your friends?"

Harry ran his hands through his hair and gave his friend a rueful smile. "That's what I have friends for, Ron. They know as well as you do that I needed to talk to you about this extra help, and that the fewer people know about it, the better."

Ron leaned forward across the table, lowering his voice significantly, even in the empty room. "I wasn't messing about, you know," he murmured, fixing Harry with a stern look. "I can't even tell you how I know who's looking into these things for me, let alone who it is or what they're doing."

Harry's brow furrowed, and his eyes narrowed, equal parts confused and skeptical. "Wait, no, what? You can't, I mean...nothing?" he sputtered in disbelief.

Ron sighed exasperatedly at his long-time friend. "Look," he reasoned, "I only know the barest peripherals of what's going on where, and that's not by accident. It's not my department, and even as acting Deputy Head, I'm still on a strictly need-to-know basis." Ron's frown turned twisted up at the corners. "It may be that the only reason I know about it at all is that I'm one of the few people who would be able to refuse the Great Harry Potter when he gets curious", he said with a dry half-chuckle. He affixed Harry with Molly Weasley's patented not-a-chance expression. "I can't tell you, and I won't. All I can say is that I trust who's behind it. They keep their own secrets - they'll keep ours, too."

Harry sat pondering Ron's words silently for a few minutes, before letting out a quick gust of air. "Okay," he said at length, measuring his words with care. "I trust you, Ron, and your judgment. If you say it's safe, it's safe."

Ron nodded, satisfied. "I'm glad you understand. I'm not just protecting your patient," he admitted. "It's more like everyone." Folding his arms across his chest, he leaned back in his chair. "And this is the best way to make sure no one bears any unnecessary risks."

"No one else, you mean," Harry quipped, giving his friend a knowing look.

"Yeah, well," Ron grumbled, "someone has to, eh? May as well be me. It's kind of my job, you know."

"Yeah, yeah," Harry teased. "The Ministry'd fall apart without you." Harry opened his mouth to say more, but closed it again.

"Something else?" Ron queried, amused.

"Nothing really," Harry said after a moment, "only, how is this going to work? I mean, can you even tell me? Or do I have to be in the dark about that, too?"

"Well," Ron sighed, "I can't tell you much about that, except that I'll be the conduit. Anything you need to know will come through me, and I'll get information to the concerned party." He leaned forward again, propping his crossed arms on the table. "If we can find out what's wrong with your patient, they'll only need data to figure out why it's happening. If we're lucky, they might even discover how to fix it."

In an easy swing, the tall redhead pushed himself up from the table. "Anyway," he breathed, signalling an end to that particular conversation, "I'd better go see what Ginny's up to. I asked her to come and watch him so the rest of you lot can actually get some sleep."

"Hey," Harry retorted defensively, "I sleep. Mostly. When I remember," he added sheepishly.

Ron gave him a knowing look. "Right, Harry. You just keep telling yourself that. If you and Hermione get more than eight hours between you in a week, I'll eat my hat," he chuckled, leveling a finger at the dark-haired man.

Harry sputtered a protest, but Ron just laughed. "Don't deny it, Harry. But you won't have to worry about remembering, as long as Ginny's here. The Harpies don't have a game for another fortnight, at least, so she'll be able to keep an eye on the doctors, and not just the patient," "Merlin knows, we need someone with a little sense around here, to keep the two of you from working yourselves to death. Besides," he commented, "don't you have to at least keep up the appearance of working at St. Mungo's?"

Harry stood up, too, clapping his best friend on the shoulder. "Alright, alright, Ginny can stay," he said, amused. "You don't have to beg. Besides," he added, with a twinkle in his eye, "I'm fairly certain Luna would have talked me into it, if you hadn't."

"I don't know," Ron said, shaking his head in fond exasperation. "I mean, I can't think of two people more different, but they seem to get on, don't they?" he considered, his grimace softening into a genuine, if bemused, smile. "Anyway, as long as she's happy, that's what counts."

* * *

 

There was a board in the wooden floor directly outside his room that croaked like Huginn and Muninn whenever anyone trod on it. It had been a mere handful of minutes since the tiny one, Luna, had disappeared through the door, and yet here it sounded again.

Loki was coming to dread that sound.

He didn't even bother to wonder who was coming, or why, or care why they were here. He just wanted them gone. And he was powerless to prevent their arrival or hasten their departure.

Resigning himself to his fate of these constant visitations, Loki turned his head away from the door, preferring instead to stare listlessly at what little of the day's waning light seeped through the heavily curtained windows. Night had not yet fallen since he had come here, half-dragged through scraggly brown forest before being instantly transported into the shabby little garden of this Norn-cursed abode. Barely a full day on Midgard and he'd been reduced to a mere shadow of himself, as helpless as any of the wretched creatures he'd ever encountered in this realm, and found himself at the mercy of not one but five powerful mages. But instead of revulsion, or fear, they had condescended to show him pity.

The flame-haired one, at least, had been significantly wary of him — suspicious, even — which Loki found incongruously reassuring. Once he'd regained his power, he would ensure that attitude to have been thoroughly justified. The rest of their short lives would be spent in absolute terror of him, when...if he regained his power.

_If._

The word hung in the air, an invisible blade above his head. It was a thought he'd assiduously avoided from the moment he'd felt those first tugs at control of his body by a will not his own. As his own power had dwindled, it had crept into his mind: the sense that, this time, the defeat was terribly real. His magic had been drawn from him as easily as the desert heat draws perspiration. And now, despite the healing of his physical wounds, he was diminishing, dwindling down to a dry, withered husk of what he once had been. There was no point in fighting, no point in escape. The Nornir had written his doom: to waste away under the most ignoble of circumstances, under the pitying eyes of some of the weakest creatures in the Nine Realms.

He had thoroughly ignored the sound of someone clearing their throat, and the muttering exchange of voices that followed. Loki was hoping against all hope that they would just go away, when a light brush of a finger on his hand startled him out of his repose. The touch had been uncomfortably warm, and had the heat of the mage's skin not been nearly painful to endure, Loki would have snatched the offending digit and subsequently removed it from the arm to which it was attached. As it was, he recoiled, hissing as if burned, although he had not been damaged.

"Are you alright?" came a concerned voice, from yet another Midgardian. This one was much taller than the rest of them, saving perhaps the suspicious redheaded one, who was nevertheless not as broad as the one standing by his bedside now. He was only slightly lighter of hair than the healer, but his skin was a burnished gold, as from long hours working out-of-doors. His ruddied cheeks suggested, too, that he was some sort of manual laborer. He reminded Loki somewhat of his thrice-cursed elder brother, although this mage's hair was much shorter, growing to just around his ears, and he wore no beard. His bearing was nothing like that of a warrior. He moved like someone who trudged instead of strode, and his manner was shy and deferential.

The dark-skinned witch who had found him was stationed behind the lumbering oaf, and her eyebrow quirked at Loki with half-amused superiority. She was undoubtedly reading his thoughts again, although he would cast himself into the fires of Muspelheimr before he acknowledged it. The eyebrow dropped into a scowl at this thought, and Loki almost smiled to himself. He recovered, though, before he lost the advantage he was playing against this newcomer.

"Just...don't," he snarled, making sure to flash just a little bit of fang. He cradled the hand like it was wounded, hovering protectively over it, tensed as if to spring at the least provocation.

The wild-haired witch just rolled her eyes. "Neville, don't let him fool you. It wasn't pleasant, but you didn't hurt him."

The mage, apparently called Neville, flicked his eyes over to the witch and back again before he twitched one corner of his mouth upwards in an almost sly smile, and his eyes twinkled. "Well," he said, sounding every bit as commonplace and provincial as Loki had expected, "I don't have to do that again, now that I have your attention. Harry and Hermione want me to help you, and to do that, all I have to do is ask you some questions."

"Delightful," Loki grumbled, giving up the charade in favor of his more customary haughtiness. "And I suppose I'll have to answer them to make you go away." He leaned back on the cushion behind his back, every inch the bored aristocrat. "Very well," he sneered, inclining his head in a gesture of feigned respect, "you may ask."

"When have your people visited this planet, and where did they go?

Whatever Loki had been expecting the man to say, that hadn't been it. "Why?" he demanded, instantly on alert.

In spite of Loki's obvious hostility, the man's attitude remained both open and straightforward. "Because," he said, without hesitation, "if we know when and where your people have visited this planet, then Hermione and I can find out what will be safest and most beneficial for you to eat and drink, and we might be able to provide you some magical medicines to speed your healing process."

Loki looked from one to the other cautiously, hardly daring to let down his guard. All the same, he relaxed slightly. At this unexpected feeling he threw the witch a shrewd glance, but she shook her head, and her odd little smirk grew the tiniest bit wider.

"Why," Loki repeated, the words falling out of his mouth unbidden, "would you want to help me?"

For a brief moment, the man called Neville examined Loki's face, until the scrutiny became as uncomfortable as that fleeting contact had been. "You're right," he murmured over his shoulder, "I can see the resemblance." The witch just nodded, and said nothing. "You have no reason to trust me," the man continued, pulling up a nearby armchair and having a seat. "I don't expect that. But if I can help you, I will." He leaned back, elbows resting comfortably to either side. "'Why' is mostly because I'm good with plants. This is a problem that, with just a little information from you, I can most likely solve." The man did not launch into further protestations, but folded his hands calmly across his middle, seemingly settling in to wait for Loki's decision on the matter.

Loki considered this for a long moment. The brief rush of manipulation had passed, leaving him feeling drained and listless once more. He turned his face away to look towards the window, catching the last gleam of orange light through a gap in the heavy drapes. He put no stock in what the man had said, but he had little else to do. If their efforts hastened his end rather than prolonged it...well.

Disdaining to voice any of these thoughts aloud, Loki turned his head to face the man once more. "Ask," Loki bade him wearily, "if you must."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Over the course of writing this story (more than two years in process now), the Hermione I'm writing has shifted from movie-cast White!Hermione to play-cast (and longtime headcanon to many fanfic readers and writers) Black!Hermione. 
> 
> Instead of continuing to write Hermione as white, I'm going to be making the shift to writing Hermione as a black woman, starting from this chapter. 
> 
> Full disclosure: I am white, and I am going to be reading and taking the recommendations of black fanfic writers on how to approach this, and, more specifically, how NOT to fall victim to racist tropes.
> 
> I will be going back to edit the previous chapters in order to portray her correctly. It may take some time, but I hope to have this accomplished by the time Chapter 13 is complete. 
> 
> There may be more retroactive corrections of the sort to this work regarding other characters: Desi!Harry is one, for instance, that is beginning to lodge itself quite firmly in my brain. Whether these edits are made consecutively or concurrently I don't know. 
> 
> Suffice it to say, I ask for your patience as I make these changes. If I screw up, I will fix it ASAP.


	13. Nomenclature

**Chapter 13:** **Nomenclature**

_ At last _ , he thought, as the door shut behind them.  

Loki had suffered the two Midgardians’ questions for far longer than he would have ever imagined possible, until finally he had simply fallen into sullen silence, refusing to speak further. The little dark-skinned witch had stared daggers at him for the briefest of moments, before gathering up her colleague and departing the chamber without another word. There had been a glint of something in her eyes, but not of anger, nor even amusement: Loki could not place the emotion that dwelled there, but it was enduring and unchanging. He had seen it somewhere before, but could no longer recall who had ever dared to look on him with such an expression. 

Left alone again, confined to a bed that creaked under his weight, shut behind curtains that smelled of dust and disuse, Loki began to brood. The light that had suffused the room, despite the thickness of the drapes, was beginning to fade into dusky blue, and they had left neither lamp nor candle with which to illuminate the darkness, as it slid into his chamber. With the invasion of night, his thoughts blackened. 

Feeling absently at his wounded abdomen, his hand fell again on the small device they had left with him. His hand clutched involuntarily around it, though whether to guard the thing or crush it, he didn’t quite know himself. He turned it over again in his hand, black claws clicking across the metallic surface as he did so. The attached wires had a small snarl in them, and he found himself picking it apart, pulling delicately at each strand as one would to untangle a bit of yarn. Once each wire lay separated from its fellow, he picked up one of the ends, and began to examine the bulbous protrusion at its terminus. He held it up in front of him, and pushed the round center panel on the device.

Sound began issuing from the bulbous end of the cord, and with more than a little trepidation, Loki perched one of them gingerly inside his ear.

The faint sound grew louder, then faded into nothing again. After a moment of silence, an instrument began to play, something stringed and plucked as a harp, but with an odd contained resonance to it, notes seeming to fall in a revolving sort of pattern, as though trapped. Within moments, a voice began to sing, a breathy tone with rough edges, a huskiness like warriors had to their speech after returning from battle. The voice was distinctly feminine, though, stretching and pulling each syllable over the tumbling of the instrument. As he listened, an odd feeling began to stir in him, an uneasiness that something was missing, something crucial. The words were nearly intelligible, just on the edge of understanding.

 

_ I follow you _

_ How you stir _

_ Behind the tapestry _

 

_ I am the last _

_ In the world... _

 

With a jolt, Loki pulled the wire roughly from his ears and cast the device on the floor. It was  _ wrong _ . He understood these words by themselves, and  _ not through the Allspeak.  _

Skin prickling, Loki took several deep, shuddering breaths. The tiny room was suddenly close, shrinking, collapsing in on him.  _ Out _ was all he could think.  _ I have to get out _ . Frost was gathering now, and a deep chill engulfed him as he pushed himself up off the bed, tearing the covers off in desperate need, levering himself up with the nearby chair until he could stand, taking halting steps until he collapsed against the wall next to the door. Pressing his ear to a crack between the hinges, Loki waited for several ragged heartbeats until he was certain he could hear no tread outside. 

Cautiously, he turned the handle until it clicked, the door swinging silently open of its own accord as soon as he let go. The corridor was deserted, the creak of the floorboards the only sound as he crept along the hall to escape his prison, and to leave these wretched mortals as far behind as he could.

* * *

It was nearly sundown by the time Neville and Hermione had finished interviewing Loki about his people’s involvement on Earth. What he had been able to tell them – or, at least, what he had been willing to reveal - had given both of them plenty to think about. Neville had bustled off home, to scour his books for Scandinavian potions ingredients, and to browse his gardens for any related specimens. Hermione had gone off by herself to consider all she had just heard. She had begged off the evening meal, simply taking one of the proffered sandwiches with her, before ensconcing herself in the library of Number 12.

Harry, Ron, and Sirius were seated around the table in the kitchen downstairs, grazing on the remains of the sandwiches while they talked. Ginny and Luna had left, together, about an hour before, with promises to return next day. As the evening wore on, the three men grew quieter, each falling into dark and solitary contemplations of their own.

Just before midnight, Sirius shook himself before pushing up from the table. “Well, lads,” he said tiredly, “I don’t know when I last slept, in a bed at any rate. I don’t suppose you’ve got someplace where an old dog can lay his bones?”

Harry smiled thinly at the pun, exhaustion plain on his face. “Of course,” he said, “though I’m not sure what room might be the cleanest. We put Loki in the best guest room on the first floor, so that leaves the smaller rooms and the third floor guest room, since Ginny and Luna didn’t stay. You could have your old room,” he offered with a half a smile, “but I already know it’s a complete disaster.”

Sirius raised an eyebrow. “Took it over for your own, did you?” he asked knowingly.

Harry let out a small sigh. “It took a while, but yeah. As soon as I realized you weren’t coming back for it.” His smile turned rueful. “Shows what I know.”

Sirius clapped his godson firmly on the back. “Never you mind, Harry. I’ll be comfortable enough in one of the other rooms. In some respects, this is a completely different house from the one I grew up in, and the idea of sleeping in my old room at home doesn’t strike me as a very good one. Better to keep this new perspective, eh?”

Harry blinked, then nodded his head. “Yeah, that makes sense. I wouldn’t want to go back to Privet Drive just to sleep in the cupboard again. Clean breaks are best.”

Just then Ron began to stir, shifting his elbows off the table to lean back in his chair. “I should get to my bed, as well,” he said. “I’ll be back by tea tomorrow. Promised George I’d be home a bit, give him a moment to himself.”

With a hum of understanding, Harry put his hand on Ron’s arm, squeezing it gently. “I’ll be over soon, you can tell her,” he said, voice tight with concern. “It’s been too long, honestly.” 

Ron’s mouth twitched up in a sad little half-smile, then he pushed himself out of his chair. Before he had made it across to the Floo, Hermione came down the stairs, face drawn from the strains of the day.  “Not to create an emergency,” she said, “but Loki’s not in his room.”

Harry let out a surprised “oh” and scrambled to his feet, but Ron just rolled his eyes. “Of course he did,” the red-headed man grumbled. “Before you rush off, Harry, give me your professional opinion: how far is he likely to have gotten?”

Harry stopped short, thinking. “Not that far, actually,” he said at length. “If he got out of the house, I’d be very surprised.”

“Should we search the house first, then?” Sirius piped up.

“Couldn’t hurt,” Hermione interjected. “I doubt he’d be much interested in climbing stairs, but I wouldn’t put it past him.”

“Well, until he tells me to shove off, I’m still his Healer,” Harry muttered in irritation. “I suppose that means I’d better go find him.”

“Not alone, you won’t,” Ron commented. “Come on, we’ll cover more ground together.”

The three friends looked at each other, then at Sirius, who shrugged his assent. As weary they all were, the four of them had a patient to find.

* * *

 

It was Sirius who found him first. After searching the entirety of the ground floor, he wandered through and out of Number 13, where he spotted Loki sitting on a large stone in the garden, his long frame folded up around him like a shield. Sirius loped up until he was about five feet away and stopped, leaning carefully against a nearby trellis: the last of the summer roses had long since gone, leaving only the hardened stems, and the requisite thorns, behind. 

It was an astonishingly clear night, for November. The air was sharp with the beginnings of a hard frost, making Sirius shiver a bit. The movement made the arbor rattle, and at the sound, Loki raised his head, at once alert, instantly pivoting to pinpoint the source of the noise. 

Sirius noted, for the first time, how very young Loki appeared. 

In profile, with his features tinted a silvery blue by the light of the full moon, every trace of world-weariness and cynicism was wiped away, leaving the wary and watchful face of an extremely young man: one still very much in the blush of youth. His attitude was wary, red eyes open wide and glowing in apprehension. 

“ ‘s just me, mate,” Sirius yawned, shaking himself once or twice to get fully awake again. “Wondered where you’d got to.” 

The corners of Loki’s eyes narrowed, but he did not reply. The alien young man’s shoulders hunched reflexively, bringing the points of his green and black jerkin within inches of his earlobes. Sirius wondered for a moment why Harry and Hermione hadn’t gotten him more comfortable clothing to wear than what appeared to be leather armor. But, then again, he supposed, if he were in a completely unfamiliar place, at the mercy of whomever happened upon him, the last thing he’d want to do would be to give up his clothing. 

While Sirius’s thoughts ranged, Loki remained silent, holding himself perfectly still. As the minutes passed, his shoulders gradually fell, until he appeared, if not precisely comfortable, at least no longer poised to flee. This skittishness was worrying, especially compared to the overbearing, downright haughty manner Loki had displayed while they had been in the woods. This change, this diminishment made Sirius frown: it reminded him of someone, though he couldn’t put his finger on either the person or the circumstance that prompted the unsuccessful jog to his memory.

Shaking his head to clear it of that conundrum, Sirius stood straight again, and asked in a quiet voice, “Do you mind if I join you?”

Loki’s head swiveled toward him, the glint of a red eye examining Sirius with intense suspicion. Sirius held his gaze, putting on the most friendly, neutral face he could. After a moment, Loki gave a curt nod, the tension in his frame relaxing somewhat, and he turned away again to gaze out over the garden wall, beyond the line of trees and shrubs that divided the garden of Number 13 from its neighbors. 

Padding softly over the withering grass, Sirius flopped to the ground next to Loki, still not touching the young man or the rock on which he was perched. Sirius stretched his legs out in front of him, then propped himself up on his elbows, leaning back to look at the stars. 

For a long while, they both sat quietly, intent in their own thoughts. Finally, Loki tilted his head back, turning his face fully towards the sky. Without looking at him, Loki spoke, in a soft voice, lacking any of the steel or fire Sirius had come to associate with the young man. “You transform yourself into a wolf,” Loki said simply. “Why?”

“Dog,” Sirius corrected, without thinking. “They’re descended from wolves, sure,” he clarified, “but it’s not a wolf.”

“I fail to see the difference,” the taller man said, with a somewhat disgruntled sigh. “You gave me no answer.”

“True,” Sirius said, stretching out comfortably despite the chill rising up from the ground. “It’s a bit of a long story,” he admitted, “but suffice it to say, I did it for a friend.” 

Loki’s expression did not change, but his arms ever so slightly loosened their grip around his knees. “I care to hear it,” he muttered testily, “else I would not have asked.”

“Well,” Sirius gusted, “I suppose there’s no harm in telling it. When I went off to Hogwarts, that’s a school for magic, I made friends with a small group of kids in Gryffindor House, including a boy who’d been bitten by a werewolf when he was just a small child. He was a shabby little fellow, but he was smart - whip-smart. He hid his condition very well; it took more than a year for us to figure out what was wrong with him.”

Sirius paused, in case Loki had any questions, but his companion made neither move nor sound. With a small shrug, Sirius continued. “You see, a person infected by a werewolf becomes a werewolf themselves. With each full moon, they transform into a wolf-like creature. What’s more, during transformation they lose their ability to control their actions, and their instincts tell them to kill or infect others. Remus, that was his name, simply disappeared for two or three days every month, and he came back looking more like an exhausted skeleton than any child should ever look. We lived together, studied together, and yet he hid his horrible secret from all of us. As I said, he was clever: he always had a good explanation for his absences, and he never used the same excuse twice.”

Sirius sighed, shaking his head sadly. “It was Lily who first realized why Remus was really disappearing every month, and confronted him about it. She was the one who convinced Remus to tell the rest of us, because she wasn’t afraid of him. It took some time for him to trust that, as his friends, we wouldn’t abandon him as others had.”

As Sirius spoke, Loki shifted his weight slightly, sliding down off the rock to sit on the dry, grassy earth. He leaned back, letting his head rest on the stone behind him. Sirius waited again, but again, neither comment nor question was forthcoming. 

“It took three years for us to find a way to help Remus, to keep him safe but also not endanger ourselves. The solution was turning ourselves into animals, since werewolves only target humans. By our fifth year, all three of us could turn into some kind of animal. My form was the dog.”

Again he paused.  _ Third time’s a charm _ , Sirius thought, as he heard Loki’s slow intake of breath.

“So,” Loki exhaled, releasing the words with controlled deliberation, “you have said why you chose to transform yourself. You have not yet explained the reason for your choice of form.”

“Because I can’t answer it,” Sirius replied openly. “Magic chose the form, not me.”

Loki scowled. “Were you all made into wolves, then, to be like the wolf?”

Sirius’ bark of laughter made Loki startle. “Merlin, no,” he chortled, “we all took different shapes. James became a stag, and Peter was a rat.  All I know is that it worked. James and I could keep Remus in check, and Peter could sneak past the Whomping Willow, to let us in or out of our hiding spot.”

Just then, the door to Number 13 creaked open again, and Hermione stepped out into the night air. She settled herself several feet away, leaning against the trellis nearest the house. Her attention was clearly focused on the two of them, but she made no move to interrupt their conversation. 

Loki gave a longsuffering sigh, but did not otherwise acknowledge her presence. Instead, he gave a short nod, and turned his head slightly towards Sirius. “You did not choose your form,” Loki mused, “and yet the form you took was perfectly suited for the task at hand.”    


Sirius nodded his shaggy head. "I don’t understand it all, myself. Either magic really does reveal our true nature, or it can’t resist a bad pun,” he said with a wink.

Loki only frowned, not seeming to recognize the joke. 

“I’m named after the Dog Star,” Sirius explained.

“You’re….named after a star?" Loki scoffed.

"It's, well, a family tradition,"  Sirius said, an embarrassed smile on his face. “At least I got a decent one, nice and bright. It’s right there,” he said as he turned, pointing to a star just above the horizon to the south.

Loki followed where Sirius indicated, to a bright blue-white speck shining just above the treetops, and stared in disbelief. “What?”

Sirius looked at him doubtfully. “That star, the bright blue one? It’s name is Sirius, also called the Dog Star,” he said with a soft chuckle. “Like I said: magic has a sense of humor.”

Loki, however, wasn’t laughing. “ _ Lokabrenna _ ,” he said, quietly. It had been ages since he’d looked at the stars from Midgard, since the last time Odin and Frigg had brought him here, when he was a small child. Thor and the Warriors Three had teased him about  _ Lokabrenna _ , and its proximity to  _ Friggjarrokkr _ , Frigga’s Distaff. “Beware, youngling,” they’d taunted, “don’t catch the Lady Frigga’s spinning a-fire, she’ll take your torch away!” His mother had assured him they meant no harm, but he’d clung to her skirts, hiding from the older boys, not realizing that was precisely what they’d been teasing him about. The first weakness Odin had seen in him, and the last he’d been willing to give up. He gazed up at the constellation, three stars curving as the low-slung belt she wore, three straight suspended from it, as the spindle she carried.

Any tears he’d had for his childhood had long since dried. But in that quiet moment, weak with mortality and craving nothing more than a return to those days in Asgard, Loki’s face was quiescent, touched with longing and regret.

“‘Loki’s Torch’,” Hermione breathed, enlightenment dawning on her face. “That’s...that’s Old Norse.” In the intensity of the memory, Loki had forgotten both Midgardians were there. Sirius just looked at him quizzically, but Hermione stared, and let out a low whistle. “You’re not just  _ named after _ the Norse god, are you?” she said, voice lodged halfway between astonishment and accusation.

Loki said nothing, preferring to close his eyes on everything: these maddening Midgardians, his mother, the black night sky.

Hermione made eye contact with Sirius again, but all he could do was shrug. He had no more idea what was going on in this young man’s head than the rest of them had, even though Hermione seemed to have some notion of her own. He wondered briefly if she’d been practicing Legilimency on the surly young fellow all day long.  _ That might explain why she looks worn to bits, _ Sirius thought, noting the nearly black circles under her eyes. They were clearly visible against her dark skin, even in this poor light. 

Sirius shrugged off the threads of tiredness that were hanging onto him, stood, and strode over to where Hermione was leaning, just in the shadow of the house. “I’ll come in when he does,” he muttered to her as she stepped back across the threshold. Hermione gave him a grateful, wearied smile before going back inside, shutting the door behind her. As soon as she had gone, Sirius turned back towards the open garden where Loki sat, and, standing in a shadow, transformed himself into the Animagus form in which he had spent so many sleepless nights. 

Snuffles padded through the garden towards the young man who still smelled of mountain snow, and laid down in the grass beside him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve had a number of people be curious about what’s on that music player from waaaay back in chapter 8, and now we get to see! The song that creeps Loki out is “Síðasta ég” by Björk, only loosely translated by me. The device in question is an iPod shuffle, so the music selection is completely random.
> 
> Shout-out to my lovely beta/cheerleader [barton-no](http://barton-no.tumblr.com), who has been observing my writing process for the last few chapters. With her help, I am much more optimistic about keeping this interminable story going. ;)


	14. Chapter 14: Origins

Coming back inside, Hermione fell into her usual high-backed armchair in the front room of Number 12, letting her head lean back onto the cushioned surface as she took a deep, steadying breath. Having neither the energy nor the inclination to charge about the place looking for Harry and Ron, she instead cast a silent Patronus, and soon a shimmering silver otter was gamboling up the stairs to deliver her message:  _ We found Loki. Sirius is with him in the garden. Get some sleep. _

The evening’s revelations could wait until morning.

She stayed like that for some time – head leaned back on the chair, eyes closed, lean brown arms draped carelessly over the armrests – appearing for all the world to be asleep. But Hermione did not sleep. She needed to  _ think _ . This was the best way she had found, shutting out all distractions and allowing her mind to wander. The boys would, true to form, take her recommendation to go get rest, leaving her alone with the presumption that she, too, would be doing the same. 

The corners of Hermione’s mouth twitched slightly, with hints of both exasperation and amusement. She had long ago stopped expecting them to be able to let go of any problem, once posed, so she instead postponed news that might agitate them until they could properly deal with it. There was no sense in  _ all _ of them being permanently sleep-deprived.

The problem of Loki rolled around her mind. If her surmises were correct, then their visitor was going to be much more of a challenge than anticipated. If he were  _ the  _ Loki, the trickster figure of Norse mythology...that would make him impossibly  _ old _ . But no, he was clearly young: if he had been human, she would have pegged him as no more than eighteen. He might not be old for his species, but it seemed increasingly possible that his people were so long-lived that a human existence would seem fleeting by comparison. The earliest extant manuscripts of the  _ Edda _ were only around seven hundred years old, but the source material was far older. This Loki could be more than a thousand years old, and yet be only on the cusp of maturity for his species: a species which, to all appearances, had visited Earth somewhere in the distant past, in Scandinavia, enough to influence a culture’s  _ mythology _ .

That possibility opened up  _ far _ too many avenues to explore tonight. Hermione filed away those tangents for later examination, and moved on to more practical matters.  _ What to do with Loki  _ was the chiefest among them. Of all of them, it seemed that Sirius had the best rapport with him, which she supposed was to be expected. Sirius, had, after all, been quite the prankster himself when he had been Loki’s age – well, the  _ equivalent _ of his age, in any case. There was more to it than that, of course. Sirius’s time in Azkaban had made him a vastly different man than the one who had been sentenced to that torturous place, and although he made himself up in the image of a happy-go-lucky fellow, there was something about Sirius’s demeanor that nevertheless hinted at the much darker  _ reasons _ as to why he was so sunny now. 

What Loki’s preference for Sirius’s company might indicate about the young man’s own past, Hermione suspected, could be significant indeed. For the first time, she entertained a growing doubt that they, with their human limitations, would be able to help him enough. There might be decades’ worth of healing in Loki’s future, if not centuries. There was only so much they could commit to this before it consumed their entire lives.

With these and other troubling thoughts in her mind, Hermione drifted into a deep but fretful sleep. 

* * *

In the thin pre-dawn light, Sirius cracked open an eye and sniffed. A heavy frost had fallen in the night, although the chill had not managed to penetrate both the thick, warm fur of his Animagus form and the warming charm he’d cast on himself before transforming the night before. The air was crisp and brittle with the cold, and the scent of it tickled his nose as he scented out the morning. 

He raised his head and cocked it to one side to regard his charge, who was still sleeping, not curled up for warmth like Sirius had been, but stretched to his full length on the ground, head pillowed on his curled forearm. His skin had turned an even deeper shade of blue, and all over his skin was crusted over with a layer of delicate, crystalline ice, as though the frost had been drawn to him, or grown stronger wherever it touched him.

Somewhat alarmed, Sirius rose from the hollow he’d slept in and trotted over to the place where Loki slept. The younger fellow’s face was turned upwards, his long eyelashes laced like spiders’ webs where lines of frost had rimed his eyes. Sirius prodded Loki’s prone form with his nose and let out a soft whine. He gave a soft  _ whuff _ once the sleeping figure stirred. 

Loki took his time waking up. Sirius had had a good scratch and a bit of a preen before the younger man opened his eyes, blinking away the frost before staring up into the pale gray sky. Giving him another good prod under the arm with his snout, Sirius whuffed again into Loki’s side, checking both his reflexes and his wound. Loki twitched at the contact, giving the dog a half-conscious shove away from him as he struggled to sit up. 

Undeterred, Sirius simply sat down on his haunches, poking his muzzle between the young man’s arm and his body. Loki eventually got the hint, wrapping an arm around the great black dog and hoisting himself upwards. Panting with the effort, he pushed himself backward until he could again lean his back on the stone in the garden. After a few ragged breaths, Loki pulled his legs up underneath him and, placing one hand on the rock and the other on the dog’s broad back, hove himself onto his feet. 

“I think,” he said sidelong to the dog, who was looking up at him with almost human concern in his eyes, “that I am ready to be elsewhere.” The dog sneezed and shook his head, but otherwise trotted almost immediately over to the pile of clothing he’d left lying under the arbor and, picking them up in his mouth, followed the lanky giant back inside.

* * *

It was late afternoon before they all reconvened, Ron being the last person to arrive after spending the morning with his mother at the Burrow. Loki had returned to his room without so much as a word to anyone else, and Sirius, in dog form, had gone up with him, presumably transforming back and getting dressed in the relative warmth of the house. Much later he came down the stairs, looking tired but hopeful, in search of something for both of them to eat.

“I’m not sure what he wants, actually,” Sirius replied when Harry questioned him about the taciturn young patient. “He doesn’t talk much, even to me, and seems to prefer sitting quietly to doing much of anything at all. Still,” he admitted, “he seems more at ease around me this morning after spending all night with Padfoot. What that has to say about his state of mind, I’ve no idea. But it seems to be an improvement, however small.”

Harry nodded grimly, but said nothing. He was quite worried about Loki. It wasn’t Harry’s experience as a Healer but his Auror training that had him on edge. There was something dark about Loki’s outlook that refused and resented all assistance, and he’d only seen that kind of gross hatred at work in cases like the Lestranges. Once captured, Rabastan had been sullen and silent, refusing to ask for anything, even when the serious burns he’d incurred during his capture must have been causing him quite a lot of pain. But no matter who offered it, the man had seemed determined to accept nothing, neither pain potion nor food nor drink, until Kingsley had finally had enough of the man’s protests, and sent in a squad to Stun him. He was essentially force-fed after that, and Harry half suspected that someone in the Ministry had Imperiused him so that he wouldn’t starve himself while in custody. It had been one of the many times he had doubted the methods as well as the morality of the Ministry’s workings, and what had eventually led to his abrupt departure from law enforcement.

He was coming to understand, even though he only took the title ‘Master of Death’ half in jest most of the time, that he had a responsibility to prevent death where possible, but also to allow it where necessary and desired. Harry very much feared that Loki, if he continued on as he had been so far, might eventually fall into that second category. Harry knew he would do his utmost for this alien being, but that such a person was potentially powerful beyond anything Harry and his friends could do or help. He wasn’t certain why, but some sense Harry had told him that if Loki regained his physical strength, let alone any magical powers he might have had, there would be little the few of them could do to prevent his destroying himself, if that was what Loki wished to do. Harry just hoped, for all their sakes, that they would be well clear of him if he ever did.

With all this on his mind, Harry only half-listened to the temporary measures that Neville had proposed to help Loki in his recovery, namely the potions ingredients he thought safe enough to try, as well as some likely substitutes for common ingredients found elsewhere in the world than northern Europe. Neville was quite brilliant, of course, in his own quiet way, and it made Harry smile to see his former classmate in his element like this. 

Hermione was, of course, paying very close attention to Neville’s presentation, taking careful notes as she had done for as long as Harry had known her. She looked tired, though, like she’d been stretching herself thin again. For all he liked to talk about giving patients the dignity to decide whether to accept treatment, he was sorely tempted some days just to dump a Sleeping Draught into Hermione’s morning tea, just to make sure she took a day off once in a while.

Harry didn’t doubt for a moment that she had feigned sleep in the library again, in an effort to make certain some of them had a decent night. He wondered briefly what problem she had worried at so late in the night, even after the rest of them had gone to bed. If it was important, he reasoned, she would no doubt tell all of them once Ron returned from the Burrow. 

After a short span Ron did return, looking so careworn from the morning’s ministrations that he could have been Sirius’s age, rather than not yet thirty. The trouble with Mrs. Weasley was wearing on them both, but Ron’s duties to family were apparently harder on him than on Harry. Harry supposed it was something that happened when you were family by birth, instead of by choice. He resolved to go see Molly more often, especially when Ron was having a hard time of it.

Once they were all gathered once more around the kitchen table, Hermione stood up from where she’d been taking notes, and immediately the conversations in the room fell into silence. She had that look on her solemn face that said whatever was coming was important, and possibly contentious.

He was right.

“Loki may be a god.”

She stood completely still in the center of the hubbub, waiting for the clamor to die down. 

Although none of them were particularly religious, this statement - especially coming from Hermione - was so outlandish that Ron couldn’t stop shouting, and both Harry and Neville stuttered protestations. Sirius looked baffled but curious, Ginny was indignant, while Luna just smiled her knowing little smile.

When everyone had finally calmed down a bit (mostly Ron and Ginny), Hermione cleared her throat. “What I mean to say is,” she continued, as though the room hadn’t erupted at her last statement, “that Loki’s people are apparently the direct inspiration for the chief figures of the Norse pantheon. We were working with the supposition that his ancestors had visited Earth sometime around the 10th or 11th century, but from what I have gathered, it was his immediate family who did so.”

Harry frowned at this. “But that would make Loki…”

“...possibly a thousand years old, yes,” Hermione finished. “And yes, he’s still barely out of adolescence. That makes helping him both more important and more difficult.” She paused a moment, but everyone was too busy processing this new idea to comment, so she went on. “I’m sure most of you have noticed his unwillingness to be helped. I’m not certain we can do much more than give him a place to let his body heal, and get out of his way.”

At this both Harry and Sirius bristled, though Ron just shook his head sadly. “You know it’s true, Harry,” the redhead said. “If he doesn’t want our help, we can’t make him take it.”

Harry subsided at this, but Sirius spoke up. “I can’t help thinking there’s more to it than that,” he stated, “at least for me. You are all good, kind people, but we’ve all been through war,” he went on. “You can’t mean to tell me that none of you can see that this young man has also! For Merlin’s sake, you were  _ all _ child soldiers. I was barely in my majority when I began to fight, myself. We have a responsibility to take care of one of our own.”

“I see it,” Ron replied placatingly, “and I’m sure the rest of us do, too. There are some people you can’t save, though. They have to do it on their own.”

“We don’t know yet if Loki is like that, though,” Harry replied hotly. “I have a responsibility, too, to do what I can, and I know I’m not done yet. As long as he’s even marginally willing to be here, I have to try.”

There was a strong murmur of agreement from everyone except Luna, who was watching the proceedings with an air of calm confidence. Hermione caught her expression and smiled just the tiniest bit.

“I’m glad to hear it,” she said, sitting down with them at the table once more. “I just wanted you all to be aware of the potential danger in this situation. We are dealing with someone who, barring tragedy, will far outlive us, and even whose complete development as an adult we may not be able to see within our natural lifetimes. We age more slowly than Muggles, but not nearly as slowly as Loki.  There is also the possibility that he will regain his magic, and we do not know the full extent of his powers. He seemed to be impressed with our abilities, but he also considers us inferior. We would be equally surprised, perhaps, if an insect started to cast spells,” she explained, looking around at the faces of the rest her friends. A particularly Gryffindor brand of defiance colored most of their expressions, save Neville, who also seemed worried, and Ron, who just looked grim. 

“So,” Harry summed up, “we’re going to plow ahead, even though we might end up with an unstable, practically immortal wizard on our hands, who might not even consider us worth scraping off his boot?”

Ron gave a snort. “Yeah,” he grunted, a wry, lopsided smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “That’s not even weird for us, is it?” 

Ginny rolled her eyes. “Just your average Tuesday,” she quipped.


	15. Insight

Loki carried on like that for a number of days, just letting the Midgardians bring him food and drink, while his mind wandered through various phases and spheres, past and present. He had very nearly taken up residence in what they called the back garden, despite the place looking as though it had never known a gardener’s care. Bowers of wild overgrown vines, completely devoid of leaf or blossom, looked as barren as he felt, and the cold stone in the garden’s center quickly became his favored resting-place. He would find himself out there, skin deepening to a richer blue from the definite chill in the air, leaning on the rock, awaking only to find he’d slumbered the daylight hours away.

Eventually one of the Midgardians would come find him, and lead him back into the house with a scowl or a nod or a sigh, and bring him down to the lower levels which held the cook-fire and the traveling-fire. There would be a dish of this or that in front of him, and Loki would eat, though he rarely recalled having done so afterward. The contents of the dish would vanish, and he would retire to his room, which they had begun to alter somewhat for his comfort. The threadbare curtains were drawn open, allowing waves of deliciously cold air to seep through the glass-paned windows thus revealed. The thick, stuffy blankets were removed from the bed, replaced with sheets of cool linen, made from cloth fine enough to gain his notice. There were intricate designs worked into the hems, as well: the most detailed scenes, of longships riding ocean waves, and underneath them many-armed creatures of the deeps.

Despite his long, inadvertent sleep in the afternoons, he nevertheless fell into slumber again in the darkness, while his thoughts pitched and rolled through his mind like barks in a tempest. He would wake in the night, then, as the light of the moon streamed in through the windows, falling full on his bed, throwing the rest of the room into sharp relief.

This night, it illuminated the pointed ears of a large, furred animal lying curled into an oval just inside the door. For a moment Loki tensed, but as his eyes adjusted and his senses returned to him, he leaned back onto his pillow and sighed. It was only the wolf-mage, who apparently needed to assume his animal form regularly, and for extended periods: an effort to retain the skill, perhaps. Quiet, canine breathing issued from the place where the creature lay, in the long, slow rhythm of sleep.

With another long exhalation, Loki turned onto his side, away from the slumbering intruder, to stare out into the brilliant night.

_The scene that played out before him was a familiar one. He was in one of the palace gardens, his mother’s, walking sedately under the laden boughs of an orchard. The sun was pleasant for once, merely a delicate counterpoint to the first true chill of autumn._

_The fruit depending from the limbs above him was lush, grown fat with the warm rains of summer, but finally turning now a burnished orange with the coming of the cold. They had been his favorite treat as a child, one gotten by stealth and trickery as often as by permission. With a lurch he felt his stomach growl at the memory, a ravenous hunger overtaking him. A particularly fine specimen appeared directly in his path, as though the tree were itself serving his need._

_Without suspicion or guile, he lifted his hand to pluck the fruit from where it hung, but when he gave it a quick twist, the fruit refused to be parted from the branch.  Scowling, he tugged at it again, harder, and still it clung stubbornly to the tree. He stared at it in disbelief, then watched in growing horror as his hand, now thorny and clawed, scrabbled to gain purchase on the smooth orb of the fruit where he had previously held it fast in agile fingers. The fruit frosted over and turned as transparent as ice, and the surface crazed with cracks before shattering into dusty fragments which fell, glittering, through his fingers._

_In the last moments of his distress, before darkness claimed him, he heard his mother’s voice cry out to him, though whether her alarm was for herself or for others, he could not tell._

Loki awoke to an peculiar sensation: something warm, moist and _snuffling_ was jabbing him in the neck. A warmer light of pale gold was streaming through the windows, and it was coming at him from an odd angle. He tried to sit up, but he only twitched a bit; the movement was somehow wrong. The blanket was....no. That was their strange woven floor covering on his face.

The snuffling intensified, and Loki blinked, twisting his head to the side. He came nose-to-nose with...a wet nose on a long furry snout. With a huff of disgust, he turned his head away, only for the miserable creature to _lick his cheek_. In an instant he was on his feet, staring daggers at the mage in wolf form, breath heaving from both exertion and rage. He narrowed his eyes, a gesture that would have had the citizens of Asgard treading very carefully indeed, but the creature had the audacity to look him straight in the eye and _wink_.

By the time the wretched man had resumed his Midgardian appearance, Loki had unleashed a torrent of maledictions upon him and his eventual progeny to the seventh generation.

“Sorry,” the man grinned, without the least hint of remorse. On the contrary, he looked, if such a thought could be borne, _pleased with himself._

“What could possibly have possessed you to do such a thing?” Loki seethed.

“Well,” Sirius answered, pausing in artful consideration, “I was told to make certain you were up this morning.” The lines at the corners of his eyes crinkled, obliterating any semblance of seriousness he might have been attempting. “And, well, you were down,” he finished, with a meaningful, mocking look.

“For the sake of your realm and all you hold dear in it,” Loki swore, “do not attempt such foolishness a second time.” A moment’s pause, and the Midgardian’s words finally struck him, and he peered at the man. “You require my presence,” he stated. “Why?”

Sirius’s expression grew more sober, although his eyes yet held a twinkle that Loki did not quite like. “It has come to our attention,” he began pompously, “that you are dragging about the house with a frequency that suggests you are ready to leave it.”

A knot formed at the center of Loki’s chest at this proclamation. While he found being among Midgardian mages tiresome, the thought of being turned out into this world in his current condition brought him, inexplicably, intense physical pain. At once the knot began to constrict, his vision shrinking, his lungs laboring to take in air.

In an instant the mage was at his side. Loki found himself being eased down to sit on the edge of the bed, Sirius shoving something into his unresponsive hands. “Drink,” he insisted, and Loki’s hand clutched at the slender vessel, lifting it to his mouth with shaking fingers.

As the first drops passed his lips, Loki felt the squeezing ache in his chest release, his breathing eased. He saw the object in his hand for the first time: a delicate phial of glass, nearly half-full with a slightly cloudy pearlescent liquid. “What was that?” he wondered aloud.

“The potion is a Calming Draught,” Sirius replied, all hint of playfulness gone from voice and face. “And a much-needed one, evidently.”

Loki realized that the man had an arm around Loki’s back and was, indeed, physically supporting most of his weight. Shrugging off the man’s assistance, he pulled himself as straight as the trunk of Yggdrasil, shoulders thrown back, chin lifted.

Although his rejection had been almost violent, Loki had not knocked the man back as far as he ought to have. Instead, Sirius remained where he had been, watching Loki intently. He sat there for a while, with a number of thoughts he obviously desired to share, but, much to Loki's relief, he refrained. “I think we’d best start with breakfast,” he said finally, “and a professional opinion.”

* * *

The professionals, as it turned out, were gathered around the long, wooden table in the lowest level of the house. Loki had, at first, expected to find a dungeon down there, as dingy as the place seemed to him, instead of a kitchen and general meeting-room.

The crowd was mercifully small: only the healer-mage and the stern, dark-skinned witch were in attendance. As they descended the stair, Sirius kept a firm grip on his arm, though whether to prevent fall or flight, Loki had no idea. He didn’t particularly care, at present, whether he fell or fled.

Once they entered the room proper, the dog-mage released his hold on Loki’s unprotesting arm, and took a seat next to the healer. The witch fixed her gaze on Loki before giving him a subtle nod. Neglecting to return the gesture, Loki took the chair closest to him, which was also furthest from their conversation. He would not volunteer for an interrogation; if they wanted something out of him, they would have to work for it.

“So,” the healer began, ostensibly looking down the table in his direction, if the direction of the Midgardian’s voice was any indication, “how are things with you?”

Loki didn’t bother to look at the man, or say anything. Someone placed a plate of food in front of him, which he likewise ignored.

“It was good you sent me up with that potion,” Sirius supplied eventually, when it was clear to everyone that Loki would not be participating. “It was quite useful.”

“Why?” the healer interjected with an urgency Loki hadn’t heard from the man before. “What happened?”

“Well,” Sirius said, “I woke him up once it was light, told him that since he seemed able to get about, there was no reason for him to be trapped in this house. Then he went into some sort of fit, and he started to topple over.”

Loki felt the weight of their concentration fall on him suddenly, and the panic began to rise in him once more. It was less pronounced than last time, but he longed to be hidden from their scrutiny. “It...it was nothing,” he heard himself mutter, unconvincingly, a desperate attempt to divert their attention from him.

That desperation produced nothing but failure. The witch was before him in an instant, outstretched hand lifting his stubborn chin, the brown warmth of her fingertips shocking against the chill blue of his skin. Though the touch pained him, he did not look away, and she removed her hand almost as soon as he met her eyes. She stood there, as before, at the doorway to his mind, and waited.

Rather than admit her to his thoughts, Loki spoke. “I could not breathe. It has passed,” he said haltingly, without looking away. “The draught helped,” he admitted after a long expectant silence from the three mages stretched past the point of comfort.

“A panic attack,” the witch prompted, only half a question, but one that was aimed more at the healer than Loki himself. The mage simply nodded his head, frowning, while she continued. “You were right then, Harry,” she said, going back over to sit down next to him, leaving Loki alone. “There is much more going on than we’d first realized.”

At this, she turned back to Loki again, but with less intensity than before. “If you can tell us what happened this morning, we will be better able to help you.” Her dark brown eyes were on him, wearing an expression softer than he’d ever seen in them. “If you do not wish to articulate it in words, you may also show me. I should be able to read it well enough if you simply remember, and the Calming Draught you took should keep you from reliving it totally. It is your decision.”

“ _My_ decision,” Loki scoffed, in spite of himself. “As it was when I arrived here?”

At this, the color in her cheeks deepened, reddening somewhat. “Yes,” she said, “it is entirely yours, now. It was peevish of me to intrude upon your mind to prove a point, and when I knew you were injured, though I did not realize at the time how severely.” She examined his face, and her expression shifted, eyebrows lifting. “I was wrong, Loki. I should not have done that to you.”

He watched her for a long time. His suspiciousness was born out of long experience, and honed into habit. Everything he knew told him he should not trust, it was too high a risk, he had no reason to believe a word she said. He was in no position to allow these people to have any more power over him than they already possessed. Without his magic, he had no advantage over them, no way to defeat any attack on his person, if they were determined to injure or subdue him.

 _Which they could easily do now, if they wished,_ whispered a thought.

The reality he’d been avoiding since he’d agreed to come to this miserable Midgardian residence rang through his mind, clear and penetrating as the ring of a sonorous bell.

_There was nothing stopping them from doing whatever they wanted with him. There was no reason for them to ask his permission for anything._

And the last traitorous phrase: _If they wanted to, they would have by now._

The room had remained silent for the entire interval while Loki deliberated. He could not trust that last thought, not yet, but it was enough to tip the scales of his mistrust away from absolute certainty.

When he looked up from his contemplations, all three of the mages were sitting in their chairs again, in positions of complete repose. Even the usually energetic Sirius was quiescent, hands folded on his chest. The healer, Harry, was holding a steaming mug in front of him, and the witch, Hermione, had her hands folded sedately in her lap.

Looking from one to the other in turn, he searched for any sign of duplicitousness or malicious intent, of callousness or indifference, but there was none. None at all.

“I think,” Loki said, hearing himself speak every measured syllable, “that might be acceptable.”


	16. Small Moves

Two black-robed figures passed silently through the halls, side by side. The taller one was lean and narrowly-built, long hair tied back neatly at the nape of the neck, and strolled with an almost languorous air. The other was compact, but moved powerfully and gracefully, as one fully cognizant of their physical abilities. They passed no one on their way, as expected, until they reached their destination. Two guards nodded curtly at their approach, and one of them turned and rapped on the door behind them.

After a moment’s pause, the door swung open, revealing another pair of robed figures. They exchanged a few words with the shorter of the two who had arrived before declaring to the guards, “Rotation D complete. All areas secure.” The older of the two guards, a grizzled man with a haggard face, lifted his wand, and wordlessly produced a silvery centipede, repeating the message to it. The Patronus skittered off immediately, winding up the wall and through the cracks in the stone ceiling on its way to the levels above.

“Rotation E, reporting,” said the taller figure, and the guards moved aside to allow them entrance. They exchanged places with the departing watch, and with very few pleasantries exchanged, stepped inside. Once they closed the door behind them, the circular room began to rotate, the entrance only one of dozens of identical doors completely encircling the inner chamber. As the door snapped shut, the taller of the two gave the shorter one an expectant look. 

“Not yet,” came the reply.

“Of course,” the first one answered with a nod.

When the turning room ground to a halt, they selected the door they wanted and opened it, revealing a rather pedestrian work-room. As soon as they stepped inside, the air around them began to glow, and they stood perfectly still while the wards identified and admitted them. The glow faded, and the taller one made his way over to a long wooden table, leaning against it and cocking an eyebrow at his partner.

The shorter one pulled up a nearby chair and sat, running her fingers through her short, spiky hair. “We have a situation,” she replied to his unspoken question, “one that pertains to your particular expertise.”

The man’s eyebrow cocked even higher, if it were possible. “There was an attack? Or was it one of those Muggle scientists experimenting again?”

The woman shook her head. “Neither, actually. Someone was drained of their magic, but I doubt it was the blood purists. He’s...he’s not even human.”

“He’s not?” the man inquired, intrigued. “You said ‘he’, so I assume he’s a magical being, at least.”

“I’m informed that he is a being,” she replied.

“You’re informed?” the man scowled. “You mean  _ she  _ tells you. Or have you seen him yourself?”

“I have,” she replied, “and he’s not like any creature or being either of us have ever encountered. He’s the size and shape of a human, except he has pale blue skin, red eyes, and black horns and claws. If I didn’t have it on very good authority that such a thing were impossible, I’d have thought he was part dragon. Although he also has an affinity for the cold, so probably not.”

“A mutant, perhaps? But I thought their powers were physical, not magical.”

“They are, and his most definitely aren’t. The ones who found him said he looked human at first, but once his magic was completely drained, he didn’t anymore,” she explained. “The being himself says he’s not from this planet.”

The man rolled his eyes. “Great,” he complained, “first mutants, now aliens. I suppose you’re going to tell me that Muggle science supports this claim?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” the woman growled back. “You’d have to ask your least favorite person about that one. I’m not the one who keeps up with all the research from every field of study imaginable. I’m the muscle, remember?”

“Of course, of course,” he replied smoothly. “Well, I suppose there’s no purpose in debating what he is or isn’t, if neither of us knows. I’ll have to know a lot more before I can figure out what’s going on. Do they have any idea who or what drained him?"

At this, the woman frowned. “I didn’t find out. Everyone was more focused on keeping him alive than on retelling the tale.”

The man huffed, but made no demur. “The limitations of secrecy,” he sighed, producing a wand made from dark wood from the sleeve of his robe. “And they’ll bind us doubly, considering this news is coming from you and not from the Head. I suppose there should be some way to get the Department to approve a visit without revealing the, ah, otherworldly nature of the latest victim.”

Drawing her wand as well, the woman turned back towards the door, and their nightly rounds. “By comparison,” she smirked, “explaining your presence to not one but  _ two _ of your least favorite people will be simple.”

“If they want my help, they’ll let me help,” the man replied, giving a laconic shrug. The conversation being over, the two of them exited the little room together to begin their nightly rounds.

* * *

It was  _ insulting _ .

Gradually, over the period of weeks since his arrival, Loki had come to admit, however grudgingly, that allowing these Midgardians to provide him with shelter and sustenance was necessary, even justifiable, as a means of survival. Taking their potions for healing of the body and alleviation of ill humor was a less comfortable accedence, but there was no denying the benefits of doing so. 

_ This _ discussion, on the other hand, was galling him to his core.  It had been agreed, once he had so foolishly admitted his impatience at being confined to this one small abode, that it would be possible for him to leave the house, so long as he had at least one of them accompany him. Sirius had immediately volunteered to go along -- in his animal form, of course -- which had given Loki a feeling he couldn’t quite place. He wasn’t exactly  _ pleased _ , but something about the man’s feigned nonchalance, which was so obviously covering an intense desire to leave the house as well, alleviated his own agitation somewhat.

Then the healer, Harry, had declared his intention to be a part of this little excursion. He couldn’t deny the man, Loki supposed, without risking the ire of all. He was not at this moment prepared to defend himself, if these people turn against him.

Then the stipulation he had been expecting had finally been revealed: he could not go out and be seen  _ in his current form _ . 

He could not disguise himself, that much he knew; he hadn’t felt so much as a spark of the magic upon which he had relied, instinctively, for so much of his life. Midgardian mages had, apparently, a number of options for remaining unnoticed when they wished: spells of concealment and misdirection had sounded to him like the best options. Unfortunately, Hermione had objected, stating that, while they were going into the non-magical part of London, they could not guarantee that they would not meet other mages, and that simply hiding Loki was too great a risk of his discovery.

And so, while the other two had debated the merits of this and that disguise, she had offered him another option: to cast an illusion upon him, to give him the guise he wished.

There it was: the thing that he had done as naturally as breathing for hundreds of years, she was offering to do for him.  

And she would not even need to be present to sustain it. Hermione had no intention of joining them, preferring instead to remain at the house, should anyone else arrive and find it empty. She could cast the charm and there it would remain until such time as she saw fit to remove it.

So while the other two mages carried obliviously on with their own conversation, Loki had remained stonily silent, seething while the Midgardian witch dug ever deeper, heedless of his increasing rage.

Most infuriating of all had been her manner: Hermione had made the suggestion quietly, as though she had known that Loki would find the very idea  _ anathema _ , and yet she coaxed, cajoled, with soft words in a voice pitched low, placating him,  _ managing him _ .

“ENOUGH!”

Both Harry and Sirius snapped to attention, staring at the thunderous Jotunn. The air had grown suddenly chill, and Loki’s skin had deepened to a bluer blue than they’d yet seen. He was shaking with rage, both hands clutching at the armchair where he was sitting, claws puncturing the upholstered arms. 

Loki sat seething, eyes narrowed to slits, chest heaving with rage. “You insignificant  _ vermin _ ! Do you think you can control  _ me _ ?  _ ME!?”  _ With this he rose forcefully from the chair, and waves of cold engulfed the three mages as they watched. “I am so far beyond your woefully limited understanding. I am a prince of  _ Asgard _ . I am a  _ god _ . I am a thing of  _ nightmares _ .”

Instead of cowering in fear at this display, as they ought, the two men were simply struck dumb. Sirius’s brow furrowed in confusion, and Harry’s eyebrows disappeared into his hair. The witch, however, was looking at him with a calculating expression. “Well?” Loki demanded, wheeling on her. “Have you nothing to say?”

Contrary to Loki’s every experience, Hermione just sat back and sighed. “It seems,” she said at last, “you’re shielding your thoughts much more proficiently now. Well done.”

The overt praise stopped his tirade in its tracks, and it was Loki’s turn to stare. 

“The question remains,” she continued, as though nothing out of the ordinary had occurred, “whether or not you are tired enough of this house to leave it for the afternoon.” Hermione shifted slightly in her chair, leaning into the cushioned back. “Of all the options available to you, the one which carries the least chance of discovery is a simple glamour, which will give you the appearance you wish to have. I am the best at these types of charms, so if you choose, I will perform it on you. You need not leave the house until it is done to your satisfaction. It will last until you return, and I remove it again.”

“As for the other alternatives,” Harry picked up, “there are a few, but they are much less safe for you. We don’t have a Polyjuice Potion available, and it takes more than a month to brew. Besides,” he smirked, “I doubt you’d want to walk around any part of London looking like either me or Hermione.” He shot Hermione a wry smile, and plunged ahead. “At any rate, a Notice-Me-Not charm affects the caster as well, so we’d all have to be under it. Right useless if you want to do anything at all, like, say, order something to eat.”

“The glamour is easiest to cast, maintain, and causes the least disturbance in a crowd,” Hermione finished. “If you want it, I will be happy to assist. If you don’t, you can stay here.”

Despite this calm presentation, Loki’s mind would not disengage from his astonishment. “You,” he sputtered, unable to comprehend what had just happened, “how can you sit there and talk to me like….like I’m one of  _ you _ .” He had meant the accusation to rankle, to sting, to show them all that they were nothing to him, less than vermin, but the words had come out in a hoarse croak, a sudden knot in his throat constricting, cracking the final words under the strain.

All three of the room’s other occupants were looking at him again, with neither astonishment nor confusion. Instead, there was a gleam in their eyes, a recognition of some kind, and, almost imperceptibly, Sirius was nodding. After a moment’s pause, the shaggy man loped over to Loki and, laying a careful hand on his arm, looked up into his face. “If you want to go, let Hermione cast the charm, and we’ll go.”

Despite all his inclinations to reject this offer, Loki found himself giving his assent. Sirius’s face broke out in a broad grin then, and he clasped Loki firmly on both forearms, a gesture reminiscent of Thor, when he and Loki had been children together. It was strangely heartening.

Taking a deep breath, Loki turned again towards Hermione, who was still seated in the high-backed chair, hands still resting on each of its arms, the long coils of black hair radiating around her head like an ornate headdress. 

Determined to be as un-passive a recipient as possible, he said, “How, then, do we proceed?”

Hermione’s calm expression took on an air of approval. “Picture in your mind how you wish to appear, and place that image in the very front of your thoughts, and I will try to read it without entering your mind.”

Loki took a grim, deep breath, and concentrated. He saw many images of himself, in glory, in battle, in an argument with Odin, sparring with Thor, learning magic from his mother. This last image stuck fast, and he examined it, his hair sleek and black, if not terribly long - he had been around 900 then, and had only just reached his full height. His face was lean but not gaunt, and his limbs had nearly filled out from their gangly coltishness of the previous century. His eyes were pale green, and a glint of mischief was in them, as Frigga recounted a surprising story, of how she’d convinced one of the court ladies to play a trick on her husband. It was, perhaps, the last time he had felt truly at home in Asgard, before Odin discovered Loki’s talent for  _ seithr _ , forbidding its practice anywhere in the Nine Realms.   
  
His thoughts were again about to wander when he heard the witch say, “There you are! It’s done.”

Loki opened his eyes, immediately looking down at his hands. They were young and shapely, fingers long and clever, nails again translucent and pale instead of black, on skin the color of polished bone. 

Immediately, Sirius began to clap. “Oh,” he said, grinning broadly, “well done. Very well done, indeed!”

Hermione was examining Loki in detail, casting a critical eye over her work. “It is not as I remember seeing you, but you were in quite a bit more distress, then.” She met his hesitant yet hopeful expression, and gave him a small, warm smile. “There is a full-length mirror in the next room, if you care to check for yourself.” She gestured off to her left, indicating a closed door behind her.    
  
“It’s spelled so you can see the back, too,” Sirius supplied, coming up behind the now quite Asgardian-looking Jotunn. “Come on, I’ll show you how it works.”

As the two of them exited the room, Hermione got up and crossed to the opposite side of the library to speak to Harry. “You saw it too, didn’t you?” she whispered, eyeing the door through which Loki and Sirius had just disappeared. “The cold...his skin?”

“I did,” Harry confirmed, “although I’m not certain what it could mean.” He blinked once, twice, then shook off the thought. “Best get a message to Ron, for his contact. It could be nothing, but, then again, it might not be.”

Hermione hummed a moment, then nodded her agreement. “Keep an eye on him, Harry,” she said, voice pitched even lower than before. “I don’t think he’s in any immediate danger, but from what I just saw of his thoughts, his past is as troubled as yours was when you came to Hogwarts.” 

Harry took a quick breath, and released it with a small sigh. “I suppose it’s as well he fell into our care, then,” he replied. “Was his family like that? I mean, as bad as the Dursleys?”

“Different,” she said, “but yes. His father, at least. His mother was the one who taught him magic, but his father banned him from practicing it.”

Harry nodded in understanding. “Thanks, Hermione. I’ll look out for him.”

“Well now, Miss Granger,” came Sirius’s jubilant voice, as the two of them strode back into the library, “you have performed your spellwork admirably.” He indicated the approaching Loki, who nodded in agreement. “I believe this Glamour Charm to be one of the best I have ever seen, and between you and me,” he added, whispering conspiratorially, “I’m the one who made James’s face look like Pettigrew’s every time he looked in a mirror for an entire  _ week _ .”

At this, Hermione let out a snort as Harry attempted, unsuccessfully, to stifle a burgeoning fit of giggles. Sirius bowed theatrically to each member of his audience individually, turning at last to Loki, who was giving him an odd look. 

At the end of his last bow, Sirius’s stomach growled loudly. “Well,” he announced, “it appears to be time for tea.” 

“I know a great place,” Harry said, “not too far, and dog-friendly, as well.”

“Then let us be off!” Sirius crowed, ushering Harry and Loki out of the library before him.

As the three men departed, Hermione returned to her chair and sat. The implications of Loki’s little cold snap needed some pondering and examination. She would need to have a few more things worked out in her mind before she would be able to ask for Ron’s help.

* * *

 

To Loki’s surprise, the three of them did not go out to the back garden of Number 12 to Apparate, but instead passed through to the drab little kitchen of Number 13, where Harry rummaged around in one of the drawers before pulling out a little silvery disc attached to a leather band. “Here,” he said, thrusting the band in Sirius’s direction. 

Sirius gave him a quizzical look, before reaching to accept the collar. 

“Sorry, mate,” Harry replied to the unasked question, “but dogs have to be collared and tagged in the city now. Otherwise there will be trouble we don’t want.”

“I don’t remember this from the last time I was in Muggle London,” Sirius responded, flipping the little medallion over to read the inscription on the back. “But then, that was somewhere around 1979. I imagine things have changed somewhat since then.”

“Yeah, a bit,” Harry said, smile somewhat dimmed. “This one was easy, though. Got left behind by the old tenants, so the only thing I had to do was Transfigure it to have the right names.”

“ ‘Snuffles’,” Sirius read aloud, “ ‘13 Grimmauld Place, Islington.’ And this number on the back?”

“My mobile,” Harry replied, pulling a black oblong out of his pocket. “Muggle communication device. In case you get lost and someone finds you,” he added with a wink.

“I shall endeavour not to get lost,” Sirius preened, before excusing himself to the next room. He returned in his Animagus form, and though he had to Transfigure it to fit properly, Harry soon had Snuffles fitted with the collar, and the three of them were ready to depart.

The front door of Number 13 issued out into a road, which was hemmed in by a row of nearly identical houses. They wandered down the pavement through an increasingly confusing warren of streets before coming to a much larger road, which was bordered by a park on the opposite side. Although the branches were as stark and lifeless as the garden at Number 12, Loki felt a sense of relief as soon as the trees came into view. The sky was visible there, too; the clouds that had obscured everything they could see between the buildings had grown patchy, and every now and then a bit of blue would peep out from between them. 

As they walked, neither Harry nor Loki spoke, instead going along in an ever more comfortable silence. Loki was watching the world intently, while Harry surreptitiously observed his patient, to make certain the young man was not straining himself. He had selected a pub about a 15-minute walk from Grimmauld Place, which was perhaps ambitious for a first outing, but Harry had chosen the route by the park purposefully, in case Loki had shown signs of weariness, and needed to rest a while on one of the benches. 

Their progress was slow enough, apparently, that they arrived at the pub just as Loki’s energy was beginning to flag. They were seated at a long wooden table outside of a place that was nearly identical to the houses surrounding it, save for the great tangles of bare vines hanging down its exterior, and the large white sign above its door.

Harry ordered a number of dishes for them to share, and a waiter soon brought out trays of numerous sliced meats served with pickled vegetables and something called “chutney”,  thin leaves of smoked fish, and brown bread and butter. Many of the flavors were new to Loki, although the delicate pink fish (which Harry called “salmon”) was somewhat familiar to him. They ate, again, in companionable silence, intermittently giving ‘Snuffles’ a bite of this or that under the table.

“All the plants are dead.”

Harry looked up in surprise from considering the options for pudding. “I’m sorry, what?” he asked, startled by Loki’s first words in more than an hour.

“The plants,” Loki said, indicating the leafless wisteria vines covering the upper levels of the facade. “They are dead. Why do you not rid yourselves of them?”

“It’s winter,” Harry replied, stunned by the absurdity of the question. “They’re always like that in winter.”

Loki’s brow knitted as he frowned. “But there are no leaves on them,” he protested. “Surely that means they are dead.”

“No,” Harry said slowly, “they lose their leaves in the autumn, and grow new ones in spring.”

“But when I was on Midgard before,” Loki retorted, “the leaves were there whether it was cold or not.”

“Wait,” Harry interjected, “you’ve been here before? Where?”

Loki’s demeanor shifted suddenly, as if sorry he’d said too much, but Harry didn’t press, and went back to examining the menu instead.  It was several minutes and a pudding order later before Loki spoke again, softly this time. “It was long ago, when I was a child. I don’t remember the name.”

Harry took a long look at him, and thought a moment. “Well,” he said finally, “you must have been far north, to have only encountered evergreens.” Leaving the conversation open for the young man seemed, at least to Harry, to be a pointless gesture, but he did it anyway. By the time pudding was served, he’d given it up for a bad job. Loki’s silence, which was more hesitant than stony, was nevertheless complete. “I’m sorry,” Harry said, feeling some apology was necessary, “that our winter doesn’t suit you.”  
  
“No,” Loki responded instantly, “it’s...I like the cold,” he mumbled into his nearly empty plate.


	17. Circumspection

It was only a few days after their first outing before Loki asked to leave the house again. Going down the pub, Harry considered, had been a good choice. The lanky Jotunn had both needed a good bit of rest after the excursion, and had been more relaxed and accepting of that necessity. His lassitude wasn’t simply from exhaustion, either: there was a quietness to him that was both calm and much less wary than before. Harry wasn’t sure exactly what had prompted this change, but when Loki had mentioned it to him that morning, the Healer in him was very much encouraged.

“If the weather’s good again, I don’t see why not,” Harry had replied, looking out the window at the relatively cloudless sky. “Who would you like to go with you?”

“I...would not mind your company,” he had answered, with some hesitation. “And if Sirius wishes to accompany us, he may.”

This was Loki’s way about things, hedging around a subject and asking very few, if any, direct questions. It had nearly been a month since he’d come to Grimmauld Place, and his manner and bearing were still haughty and proud, as though he were granting favors instead of asking them. Harry had simply shaken his head fondly and laughed. “I’m not certain you could stop him from coming along,” he’d said, remembering suddenly the Sirius he’d known years ago, who had been resentful of his confinement when this place had been Order headquarters. ”He’s spent far too much time in this house.”

If he wondered about such a cryptic comment, Loki hadn’t questioned him, and Harry hadn’t explained. Instead, he’d agreed to try for this afternoon, and had gone to find Sirius, who had left his guard post by Loki’s door as soon as Harry had come to check in on his patient. His wounds had healed, although the place where the projectile had pierced his skin still bore a small, thin scar the color of lavender water, in spite of Harry’s attempts to prevent scarring. 

He was still pondering that little mystery when he arrived in his study, only to see a rather harried looking owl pecking at the window. It was a diminutive thing, and rather agitated. Harry opened up the casement to let it in, and it swooped around the room two or three times, eyeing everything suspiciously before coming to land on the back of a nearby armchair and perfunctorily sticking out its leg.

Taking the tiny scroll of parchment, Harry reached absently for one of the treats he kept in the drawer for post owls, but before he could pull one out of the packet, the owl had taken off in a flutter of disdain and flown out the window again. 

After shaking his head in bewilderment at this very odd creature, Harry turned his attention to the letter he’d received, for letter it was:   
  


> _ Potter, _
> 
> _ I will arrive this afternoon, teatime. There are matters we need to discuss. _
> 
> _ Malfoy _

 

Harry sat back in his chair. He read the letter over more than once in his astonishment, although no further clues revealed themselves. What the hell was Malfoy playing at? 

The last time they had spoken had been years ago, just after Malfoy’s hearing before the Wizengamot, which had taken it in their grey and doddering heads to examine everyone who had ever had any kind of connection with any of Voldemort’s followers, apparently ‘just in case’. For the most part, the move had been fueled by a lurking paranoia, a feeling that they couldn’t be done with the war, not really, that there had to be some evil to fight that remained as yet undeclared. Harry had just left the Auror squad, and had been summoned to attest to Draco’s  _ character _ , of all things. 

Before the hearing, Harry had invited Malfoy to Grimmauld Place, to get a read on him, if nothing else. He had sat down with the pale young man, who had looked much older than Harry had expected, and had one of the most awkward and hostile conversations in his life. The younger Malfoy - now head of the family, although that still only consisted of himself and his mother - had been remarkably candid with him, even if his attitude had been as sneering and patronizing as ever.

But Harry had testified in front of the Wizengamot that, however much Malfoy was a snobbish prat, he was an  _ honest _ prat, and neither supporting nor promoting the Dark Arts in any fashion. The powers that be had been visibly disappointed, for the most part, although the newly-reinstated Griselda Marchbanks had nodded her aging head in mute approval. Afterwards, Malfoy had stopped in the hallway long enough to make some sort of half-appreciative cutting remark, and swept out of the Ministry without so much as a backward glance.

And now, with very little warning or reason given, he was dropping by for  _ tea _ . 

He was still brooding over this news at his desk when Sirius stuck his head in the door with an “oh, there you are.” Harry looked up at his godfather (who was now, it occurred to him, barely six or seven years older than he) and waved him in.

“So, how’s our mutual friend?” Sirius began without preamble, as he took a seat across from his godson.

Harry shook off the stupor the letter had put him in, and concentrated on the conversation at hand. “He’s fine,” he said, with only a slight delay, “and he wants to go to the park.”

Sirius’s thin face broke out into a grin. “Excellent!” he crowed, slapping his thighs. “When shall we go? I assume you’ll be going with us.”

Harry’s face fell. “I’m...not certain I’ll be able to do that,” he admitted, pushing the letter towards him. 

Sirius took up the scrap of parchment, and frowned. “What is he on about?” he said, after a few seconds. “Why would a Malfoy be dropping by your house for tea?”

“That’s what I want to know,” Harry sighed, looking puzzled. “Regardless of what he wants, I think it would be best for you and Loki to both be out of the house when he arrives.” 

Sirius nodded vaguely, eyes intent on the letter in his hand. “Yeah,” he replied eventually, “keeping Big and Blue away from prying eyes is necessary, I can see that. But me? Why me?”

Harry’s face was earnest, and just a bit worried. “Technically, you could come back to Wizarding Britain, resume your life, do whatever you like,” he said cautiously. “But...think about it. You told me that, when you were sent here, you were from, like, some alternate version of events. That Bella didn’t cast the Killing Curse at you. Well, that’s what I saw happen to you -- our you, I mean. You were listed dead from the Killing Curse. I don’t know that you’d be able to really live your life, if people found out you’d apparently survived it.” Harry’s grimace took on a wry expression. “That kind of notoriety is not exactly easy to deal with, you know?”

Sirius’s gaze turned thoughtful. “No,” he sighed, “no, you’re right, Harry. I don’t think I’d want to have to live with that nonsense, at all. I’d never be able to get one over on anyone, with the Daily Prophet following me around,” he winked, then turned solemnly grim. “I wonder, actually, if that many people would believe it’s actually me, though, after so long. They’d think I was some kind of evil imitation.” 

Hel’s words came back to him, then, resonating in his mind:  _ Once you pass the Veil, there is no return. _

“No,” he repeated for a third time, “going back isn’t really an option, is it?” 

“Not one you’d really want, I don’t imagine,” Harry said sadly. “But there may be many others which neither of us have considered yet. And there’s no hurry to decide, either. You’re welcome to stay with me as long as you like. Besides,” he said with a hint of a smile, “you’re enjoying guard duty still, yeah?”

Sirius leaned back in his chair and grinned. “Oh yeah,” he answered. “Loki’s not such a bad chap, once you get past the prickles. Needs to loosen up a bit, though,” he said with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. 

Harry rolled his eyes, but smiled just the same. “I’m sure you’ll think of something. You always do.”

“Well,” Sirius said, shoving himself up out of the chair, “if this interview is concluded, I’ll drag that slug-a-bed downstairs and get both of us something to eat before we make our little excursion.” 

“Good thought,” said Harry. “And see if you can take Hermione with you, yeah? She’ll have to cast the glamour on him, anyway. She’ll probably want to absent herself during teatime, as well.”

Sirius threw a jaunty salute by way of reply, and strolled out of the study, leaving Harry alone again with his thoughts. Something about this matter would not leave him alone. Malfoy’s timing felt suspicious, and Harry was beginning to wonder if they hadn’t as careful with the presence of their otherworldly visitor as they ought.

* * *

 

After wolfing down a couple of sandwiches Sirius had thrown together, he and Loki went in search of Hermione, whom they (of course) found in the library. She was at one of the little tables in a corner, poring over a rather more crumbling volume of something or other, when Sirius gently cleared his throat behind her. With a little jump, she turned, corkscrew twists flailing about her head for a moment, before coming to rest in their usual haywire halo. 

“Our young friend would like to venture out again,” Sirius declared, in the pseudo-formal way he used when he was being particularly cheeky. “Would you be so good as to give him a fitting disguise?” 

The corner of Hermione’s mouth twitched at his antics, and she granted him a half-smile. “If so he desires,” she said in mocking reply, “so mote it be.”  Turning her gaze to Loki, however, she let her playfulness fall, replaced with straightforward openness. “A glamour, same as before?” she asked, taking in the tall figure’s rather more subdued attitude. 

The alien young man was staring off past her shoulder, but nodded his head stiffly. “That will be acceptable,” he managed, though his tone was less haughty than his words.

Hermione simply nodded in reply, closing her eyes to concentrate on the image Loki had of himself: tall and slender, but with a lean and wiry grace; long black hair in a straight silken fall past his shoulders, keen green eyes in a porcelain face. When she opened them again, he was as she had seen him, wearing a plain shirt under his now rather battered leather jerkin, slim trousers, and boots. “If you like,” she offered, “Would you like me to fix your clothes a bit? There’s a spell for that, all you have to do is stand there.”

Loki, who had been examining his hands again with a closed-off expression, met her eyes for the first time that morning. “That would,” he said, with more hesitation this time, “likewise be acceptable.”

Hermione managed to refrain from rolling her eyes, instead muttering a quick  _ Scourgify _ in his direction. The leather looked at least a little less disheveled, although there hadn’t been much dirt, and no sweat marks on it, either. She wondered briefly if Loki did sweat, or if his biology prevented it. Another topic for another day. 

“It seems,” Sirius continued, standing slightly behind Loki like some kind of butler, “that Harry will be playing host to a paragon of pureblood parentage this evening. We are given leave to depart together, should you also choose to avoid him.”

“Him?” Hermione demanded sharply. “ _ Who? _ ”

“Why, the heir to the most noble house of Malfoy,” Sirius replied in a sing-song voice, though the pleasant lilt was much more brittle now, and tinged with bitterness. “I should prefer not to be in such company, and Harry assures me you feel likewise. Do you care to join us?”

Hermione nodded her head in thought, all playfulness in her demeanor gone. “What on earth could he want?” she muttered, mind now fully focused on that little mystery. “Yes, I think that would be best,” she said at last. “Unless,” she said with a glance at Loki, “you would rather go by yourselves.”

Loki and Sirius exchanged a small series of looks, which culminated in Sirius raising his eyebrows meaningfully at him, and Loki sighing, with a hint of resignation. Although Loki was still suppressing his emotions as before, Hermione thought she detected a wave of...desire to be alone. Nodding once, she stood from her chair. “I won’t tire you out with pointless conversation, don’t worry,” she said, and a slight narrowing of Loki’s eyes told her she’d hit the mark. “I have quite enough to think about, I don’t know that I’ll be much for conversation today.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Loki’s tensed posture relaxed somewhat, and, true to her word, Hermione waited with him in silence while Sirius went in the next room to “change”. He met them in the kitchen of Number 13, and the three of them departed out the front door into the chilly London afternoon.


	18. Discovery

It was getting late.

Only the merest sliver of the sun was visible over the horizon, and Draco had yet to appear.

As the clock ticked closer to five, Harry began to wonder if that letter had been some sort of prank. Or if the clock was really just that slow.

He cast a quick _Tempus_ , and sighed. He’d been keeping the tea warm for nearly an hour, and was about to lose patience and give up on the prat, when he heard a whooshing sound from the kitchen. Sighing again, he went downstairs as quickly as he dared, not wanting to look fussed about it.

When his foot trod on the last step, Harry was met with a face he hadn’t seen in nearly a decade. Draco looked older, somehow, than he expected, but then he supposed that watching people age, as he had Ron and Hermione, would lessen the shock of such a change. His hair was as pale blond as ever, not yet silvering as his father’s had, but his face had grown even sharper, if that were possible, and his eyes looked tired. Draco still held himself with that posh attitude, even though Harry knew that the Malfoy name no longer carried the same weight as it once had. Lucius’s downfall had brought the entire family’s reputation — and acceptability in society — with him.

With a father in Azkaban and a mother in mourning, Draco had been left with the responsibility of his household. To Harry’s knowledge, he hadn’t done anything of note in the past ten years, for good or ill, but to keep his family together and out of trouble with the Ministry, with the exception of the Wizengamot’s investigation, which had only been a few years after the Battle of Hogwarts.

“Hello, Draco,” he said politely, as his self-invited guest finished brushing the soot off his robes.

“Potter,” Draco answered coolly, as though he hadn’t chosen to be here himself.

They stood for a few more seconds at an impasse, until Harry’s hosting sensibilities kicked in. “Well,” he said, indicating a chair, “you came for tea. You can take a seat while I bring it.” Without waiting for a reply, Harry turned away from the table and into the kitchen proper, returning with a large, laden tray.

Draco, a bit to Harry’s surprise, had seated himself at the long kitchen table, and was waiting quietly (if a bit haughtily) for him to return. Harry set down the tray, and began to unburden it of its contents: a small plate of biscuits, a larger plate containing two pasties each (Cornish and pumpkin), the teapot, milk and sugar, and two of the nicer china teacups. All of this was set out by hand, while Draco looked on silently. Harry poured the tea, leaving Draco to add what he wished to his cup.

Harry’s mind was awash with a strange mixture of suspicion and curiosity, though he was determined not to let either of them force this conversation to start, not at least until he’d managed to eat something first. Harry helped himself to a Cornish pasty and a couple of biscuits, watching in what he hoped was a nonchalant manner as Draco primly selected a single biscuit from the opposite side of the plate, and took a careful nibble.

If Harry had been expecting a reaction to his best ginger biscuits, it wasn’t the one he received. Draco’s expression shifted only slightly, and one eyebrow quirked just the least bit higher. “These are...not bad, Potter,” he said in a slow, languid tone, as though he were too posh for any actual surprise.

It was eerie how much like his father Draco both looked and sounded at that moment. Harry’s temper flared in response, but he managed to stuff that down by taking an overlarge bite of pasty, if only to give his mouth something else to do besides go off. This was Malfoy, after all. What did he expect?

It was several minutes before Harry was able to speak again, during which time Draco polished off half of the one biscuit and sipped silently from his tea (touch of milk only). As soon as he was able, Harry resolved himself to question Malfoy about his mysterious letter.

At that very moment, Draco’s drawl came at him from across the table. “I suppose you’d like to know why I’m here,” he said, smoothly, setting down his teacup in front of him.

“I would, yeah,” Harry replied, not bothering to mince words.

“It has come to my attention,” Draco continued, “that you may be in need of my assistance. More specifically, that you have a guest who might benefit from my expertise.”

Harry desperately tried to keep his expression neutral. “And why would you think that?” he said in response.

Draco lifted his cup again and took a judicious sip. “Unfortunately,” he said at length, “I am not at liberty to discuss the particulars. Let’s just say that word has reached me, and I am here.” Without further explanation, Draco resumed his tea.

“Okay,” Harry said, dubious. “Let’s say I do have a guest, who is in some difficulty. What do you expect to do for him? And why should I let you?” He hadn’t meant to sound so belligerent, but these were the very thoughts plaguing him, now that Malfoy had more or less offered his help. If he were honest with himself, he’d have expected some sort of power play or blackmail before this. But when Draco had revealed his purpose, it had been, well, honest. He might have been mucking Harry about with all this secrecy, but the offer itself was genuine. More things have changed in ten years than his face, he thought to himself.

“I expect,” Draco replied in a slightly pinched tone, “that I would be of some benefit to your guest, and if you do not wish to take advantage of my presence, then I shan’t trouble myself over it.”

Draco hadn’t quite set the cup down when Harry cleared his throat apologetically. “Look,” he said, “I can’t really tell you much either, except that I’m dealing with a delicate matter that would, well...” he trailed off, still unsure how much to reveal. “It’s completely strange, but I’ve done everything I can think of, but he’s lost his magic and I don’t know how to heal that.” Harry’s words came out in a rush, and he realized only then how much he’d been keeping in for the sake of his patient, and his friends.

He looked up at Draco, fully expecting to see a triumphant sneer curling the blond man’s lip. Instead, Draco’s head had tilted back ever so slightly, in an attitude of listening. “Yes,” he said simply, “if you will take me to him, I can have a look.” At Harry’s astonished face, he almost laughed. “You needn’t look so shocked,” he smirked. “You have your talents, Potter, and I have mine.”

“He’s not here right now,” Harry replied, once he’d regained his composure. "You can come back, or…”

“I’ll wait, if it’s all the same to you,” Draco replied tightly, taking a further sip of his tea, his hand hovering over the biscuits. Then Harry saw, in Malfoy’s face—not mere age, as he had assumed, but something else. Now that his curiosity had been appeased and his worries somewhat alleviated, Harry could concentrate enough to see him properly. He looked drawn, and tired, but there was a tension in his demeanor that had nothing to do with his errand, but was directed at the food on the table. He was hungry, but wasn’t letting himself eat.

Suddenly a memory came back to him, from when he had lived with the Dursleys, of Aunt Petunia setting out tea in the middle of the afternoon for one of the neighbors. She’d been new to Little Whinging, a woman somewhat reduced in circumstances, but she still held herself like one of the upper crust. He remembered at that moment this woman’s disdain at the lack of delicate cakes and sweets, despite Petunia’s solicitousness (or perhaps because of it), but she had eyed the savory pastries with what Harry could only now describe as lust. Her insistence on the manners of her previous station would not let her enjoy something she desperately craved, even needed, and she had taken it out on everyone else.

“Look, they may be some time,” Harry said cautiously. “There’s plenty of time to finish our tea, and you’re welcome to stay for supper after.” 

Draco gave him a pointed look, but relented when Harry’s open face showed no judgement or pity. “It may be necessary,” was all he said, going quiet as Harry began to load Draco’s plate with portions of both pasties. Taking up a fork, Malfoy took a small mouthful of the nearest thing to him, and Harry watched as the tension in his guest’s face eased the tiniest fraction as he savored it.

Satisfied that he wasn’t letting his guest go hungry, Harry turned his attention to his own plate.

* * *

It wasn’t long before the sound of voices began to drift in from the level above, heralding the return of Harry’s guest and his guards. Harry smiled to himself, hearing the click-clack of Snuffles’s claws on the wooden floors in the hall of Number 12, as if he was capering madly about the two non-Animagi walking in with him.

Giving Draco a slight nod, Harry pushed himself up from the table, and went to stand at the bottom of the stair. “We’re down here,” he called, “and you can join us for tea, if you’ve not had yours.”

Hermione’s dark head appeared at the top of the stair, giving Harry an inquisitive look. Harry just nodded, and she disappeared again, speaking in hushed tones to the other two.

“They’ll be down soon,” Harry remarked conversationally to Draco, who was nibbling at the remains of a pumpkin pasty. “I take it we may all rely on your complete discretion?”

“As I said, Potter,” Draco replied easily, “I am not officially here. Who or what you keep in your house is entirely your affair.”

A raucous guffaw erupted from upstairs, and both men turned to watch as Hermione descended the stair, followed by a slightly disgruntled Loki, with a cackling Sirius behind him.

“Why in all the realms would I even want such a thing?” Loki complained. “A slip of paper with a scrawl on it, and you’re acting like it was some great compliment.”

“It was her _number_ ,” Sirius chuckled. “Her mobile number. She wanted to go out with you, you idiot.”

If anything, Loki’s mood turned even more grumpy than before. “Go out? Go out of where? What are you talking about?”

“Out,” Sirius said. “On a date,” he added in exasperation. “Don’t you have dates where you come from?”  
  
“Wait,” Loki said, eyes suddenly keen. “She wanted to _court_ me?”

“Not quite courting,” Hermione clarified. “Not yet. A date is...more to see if she was interested in courting you.”

The three of them reached the bottom of the stair to see Harry and Draco, still at table. Draco’s mouth, in the process of taking another bite of pasty, had fallen open at the sight of Sirius. He looked for a moment as if he might start babbling, but quickly regained his former composure, leveling an odd stare at Harry, who was grinning impishly at him from across the table.

“Of course,” Malfoy said drily. “It can’t ever just be something normal with you, can it, Potter?”

“Nope,” Harry replied, as he failed to keep from laughing.

Sirius quirked an eyebrow at the pale young man in recognition. “You must be Narcissa’s boy,” he said appraisingly. “I don’t believe we’ve met, although I suppose I don’t need much of an introduction.”

“No,” Draco replied stiffly, “you don’t. Bellatrix made a point of talking about you, quite often,” he said, then paused. “Father did, as well.” He did nothing so conciliatory as to offer Sirius a handshake, but there was something appraising in the way Draco looked at him, as if he were watching, but reserving judgment. It was more than either Harry or Sirius had expected, frankly.

Draco acknowledged Hermione’s presence by the briefest and curtest of nods, turning his attention smoothly to the newcomer in the group. He gave Loki a calculating once-over before bothering to speak to him. “I suppose you’re the guest Potter was talking about. You have lost your magical abilities, and I’m given to understand that you are not human, as well.”

Loki bristled at Malfoy’s dismissive tone, drawing himself up to his full, considerable height. “I am not of this realm, mortal,” he spat, nostrils flaring. “And you would do well to address me with respect.”

Draco’s grey eyes held steel in them, although his only response was the quirk of a dubious eyebrow. “Indeed?” he purred, in a manner eerily reminiscent of his father. “If you want to regain your magic, you would do well to tell me how you lost it.”

Harry and Sirius exchanged a look, but Hermione just rolled her eyes. “If you want me, which I doubt,” she announced, “I’ll be in the library.” Without waiting for a reply, she turned on her heel and marched back up the stairs.

Draco’s posture relaxed a little. “Well,” he continued, as though no one had spoken, “if you want my help, then let’s get started, shall we? Elsewise I have other places I would much prefer to be.”

Loki’s face was a mask of chiseled stone, but he inclined his head the least bit in acceptance. “It is a long tale,” he said at length, “and I have no desire to tell it before I have supped.”

“It’s settled, then,” Sirius decided, clapping Loki on the shoulder and giving Harry a sly wink. “Tea first, _then_ the tale.” 

With a sigh, Draco slumped back in his chair again, while Harry went to get food for the latecomers. As they ate, Sirius recounted his journey through Helheimr, encountering Loki and following him to this version of Earth. Once Loki finished eating, the Jotunn gave his version of events, and a short description of the magically-propelled cybernetic creature that had felled him and drained his magic.

“What happened to the projectile?” Draco demanded immediately.

Harry was the first to answer. “Hermione kept it. Not sure if it’s here, or at hers, but we Petrified it and sealed it in a jar.”

“Unbreakable, I presume?” Draco replied, all business.

“Yep,” Harry said. “Taking no chances, there. It was at least partly alive, and probably sentient. Hermione thought so, anyway,” he added.

Malfoy made a disgruntled little noise in his throat, but kept his commentary to himself. “I shall need to see it, and take it with me, if possible, for examination. As for you,” he said, turning to Loki, “I will need to run some tests with you, but that is best done here, I think.”

Loki blanched even paler at this, so Sirius spoke up. “What kind of tests?” he asked.

“Latent magic scans, mostly,” Draco replied offhandedly. “Most important thing to see is whether there are any remnants of your magic left, ones that are simply too weak now to be noticeable. What I find will determine if anything else needs to be done.” Standing from the table, he addressed Loki directly again. “The location for these tests is up to you. What is your favorite place in this house?”

“Why?” Loki said, suspiciously. “What does it matter?”

Draco gave an exasperated huff, but answered anyway. “If you have any magic left, it will try to recharge itself, which it does more successfully when you are relaxed or happy. If your magic is trying to recharge, you will feel stronger or less wounded or something in those places that are better for you to recharge in. The remnant will also be slightly stronger in those places, so the test will be more successful, understand?”

Loki scowled, but nodded slowly. “The back garden,” he said at last. “I feel… calmer there.”

“That will do,” Malfoy confirmed with a terse nod, and turned to the others. “You can be there or not, as you wish; it does not matter to me.”

Harry and Sirius exchanged a look before Sirius spoke up. “We’ll be there if Loki wants us,” he said simply.

“What you will,” Loki replied noncommittally, although there was some trepidation on the young man’s face. 

Sirius took this for all the sign he needed. “Come on, then,” he said, herding the rest of them out of the house.


	19. Examination

Hermione sat in the study, alone in the dark with her thoughts. The sudden appearance of Draco Malfoy hadn’t surprised her, exactly, especially considering Ron’s secrecy around who his contact was. As usual, he’d been considerate of Harry’s feelings on the matter — solicitous, even — while he hadn’t bothered to spare her even a conciliatory glance.

That hadn’t surprised her, either, but that didn’t mean the oversight didn’t sting.

It didn’t matter that Malfoy hadn’t been the one to cast the Cruciatus on her, when the three of them had been captured during the war — but it had been at his house, for Merlin’s sake. Yet again, Ron failed to understand the full effects of a trauma he had not himself experienced, even though she had explained them to him in detail, in spite of how little she really wanted to think about it. It had been a risk, that attempt to confide in someone who, Hermione had been coming to realize, was simply not capable of dealing with her as she was. It had come up again, a year or so ago, when he’d hinted again that they “could do worse” than each other.

That had been their last row. Hermione, after years of keeping it tamped solidly down, had completely lost her temper. She’d been astonished when her hot-headed then-boyfriend hadn’t exploded right back at her, but rather had stood stock still while she had given vent to nearly a decade’s worth of frustration. When she’d finally run herself out, Ron had simply stared, as if he’d never seen her before. Which, she supposed, he hadn’t...not really.

“Okay,” he’d said, in a quiet voice so like his father’s that Hermione’s mouth had nearly fallen open, “if that’s how you feel about it.” And, just like that, he’d turned heel and walked out of their shared flat, and she’d packed up her things into her beaded bag, and left.

It had taken the death of Ron’s father a few months later for them to patch things up enough to have a normal conversation again, which had been more for Molly’s sake than anything else. But Ron had kept the flat, and she’d given back the key, and returned to the camp she’d been inhabiting in the Forest of Dean since that final row. Harry had been a true friend, outright refusing to take sides, although there had been some tension between he and Ron at first. Once he had made it clear that he wasn’t abandoning anybody, but that they two of them needed to sort themselves out like adults, both she and Ron had relaxed somewhat.

They’d explained her absences — again, mostly to Molly — as an extended research sabbatical. It had been, in many respects, quite a productive time for her, but what Hermione had really been doing was grieving. There had been an assumption from those around them that she and Ron would be together for the rest of their lives, that they were bonded through their exceptional childhood adventures together, being the best friends of THE Harry Potter, and surviving the war. After all that, the rest of their lives had seemed almost too simple — a good rest after the trials of their growing-up years.

It had been completely naive of them both.

So, Malfoy’s presence was a thorn in her side, but one she could deal with, for Harry’s sake, if for no one else’s. She’d been both disappointed and relieved when _he_  hadn’t expressed an interest in her after her and Ron’s breakup, but then Harry hadn’t shown interest in anyone after the war, anyway. There had been a tiny thought in the back of her mind that, maybe, he had been waiting for her, but that had been an errant whimsy, a desire to feel loved when she was in pain, nothing more. Harry had been totally deprived of real family until the three of them had become inseparable in first year. That was who they were to him, and that relationship was far more what all three of them had needed, anyway.

Malfoy, though. Hermione had wondered what had happened to him after the war, after his father had been dragged off to Azkaban. Both Draco and his mother had disappeared after the Battle of Hogwarts — during it, possibly — and not much had been said of them in any of the circles she’d been traveling in, at any rate. She supposed he’d gone back to the manor, and was somehow supporting his mother, who had been raised to serve one function: wed a pureblood wizard and produce children. She couldn’t imagine Narcissa Malfoy being equipped to function in the Muggle world, and the Wizarding world wouldn’t have her, because of her husband’s role in the war. A niggling doubt worked at that thought, at something she couldn’t quite call injustice, but there was a misfortune there that Hermione could not quite place.

It was into these contemplations that a bright, silvery presence invaded, bringing Hermione’s awareness back to her surroundings. She assumed at first that Harry had sent a message to her, but when she turned around in her chair and looked up to where the stag’s face should have been, it wasn’t there. She looked down and saw, sitting primly about a meter away from her in the middle of the rug, was a brilliant silver fox.

It opened its mouth, and the words of its caster issued forth: “Granger, I’ll need to examine that projectile that felled Loki. Potter says you have it. I can take it with me if you can bring it to the back garden before I leave.”

“You’ll have it,” she replied in clipped tones, and the messenger turned and trotted out of the room.

Sighing, she stood, and followed the fox Patronus most of the way to the back garden, before veering off into the kitchen of Number 13 and Apparating to her camp, where she’d left the insidious, inscrutable device that had made any of this necessary in the first place.

* * *

Draco and Harry lingered on the back step of Number 12, waiting for Draco’s fox Patronus to come back. It wouldn’t do to interrupt the tests, once they had begun, and he had said as much, and so the two of them had let Sirius and Loki go on ahead, to resume what had become their usual places in the overgrown patch of weeds Potter considered a garden. By the time the Patronus returned, Draco considered, the test subject and his shadow would be much more comfortable, which would, with any luck, increase the accuracy of his readings.

Whether Granger would oblige his request was another sticking point, but one he was unwilling to pursue in person. There never had been any love lost between them, and likely never would be. A decade ago, the idea that Hermione Granger would let such enmity get in the way of her assisting some poor, helpless creature would have been preposterous, but now that assumption rang hollow. He’d learned a bit in the last few years, about the extent of human generosity — and gullibility — and the fall of the Brightest Witch into obscurity had been nearly as spectacular as his own. No, Draco no longer depended on being able to manipulate the people around him as entirely as he once had, even though having a personal history with someone was generally an asset in that department. Without the clout of the Malfoy wealth and prestige, results of his former tactics were too uncertain, and had been largely abandoned in favor of more effective methods of navigating the world.

Not that the great Golden Trio had ever made that particularly easy for him, but as he would have done no less, it no longer troubled him as it once had. Still, the fact remained, people who were fundamentally incapable of subtlety and nuance were best dealt with in a straightforward manner, in order to get any kind of desirable outcome: State his case and wash his hands of the rest.

In mere moments his Patronus returned, delivering the short response before Draco waved it away into the ether. Without a backward glance for his host, Draco made his way across the grass, wand outstretched. He cast the first few spells in the _Revelio_ series silently as he walked, noting that the _Hominem Revelio_ had no effect on the prone figure of Loki, but his companion winced and ducked, before turning a fierce glare on him as he approached.

“What the bloody hell did you do that for?” Black protested. “You knew where we were.”

Draco paid him no attention. “Black is human,” he remarked casually to Potter as the other man caught up to him, “but your guest is not. This may complicate things.” A frown creased his face, but Draco did not explain further, and Potter, for once, did not challenge him.

Black did so in his stead, of course. “How do you mean?”

 Draco felt his lip curl in annoyance, but answered anyway. “These spells were created for use on witches and wizards — that is, _humans_. Magical beings function differently than we do. What is the expression,” he said tartly, “ ‘your mileage may vary’?”

At Potter’s puzzled expression, Draco just smirked, turning back to the business at hand. “Loki,” he addressed the young man, who was lying rather defeatedly on the ground with his head propped on a rather uncomfortable looking stone, “are you ready to begin?”

“Yes,” came the exasperated reply.

Ignoring Loki’s peevish tone, Draco conjured himself a low stool and sat down. “Just lie still, and concentrate on the ground beneath you. I will be casting a series of spells over you, and you may feel some odd sensations - cold or tingling on the skin. Alert me if you feel anything beyond this.”

At Loki’s silent nod of assent, Draco began, quietly weaving spells of detection and revealing, and gradually a picture came into his mind. It was a light, small and faint, but persistently alive. Its color and texture, for lack of a better word, were difficult to ascertain. He turned it over mentally, examining it from many angles, before eventually casting a spell of sharpened sight.

What he saw then was as unlike human magic as anything he’d ever seen. Most wizards he’d tested in this way had a flow of magical current like a trickle of water, which, if they regained their magic fully, would eventually course through their bodies like a river, or like their blood. Any such images were, of course, not the magic itself, but merely a representation of its character, created by the spellwork.

The magic flowing through Loki was not one stream, but three completely different bands of magic, crackling and interweaving with each other. The brightest, and most active, the spell depicted as pale blue lightning, and this sparked wildly as it collided with the other two. The second most noticeable was solid, more like a thin strip of metal, as though it had been sculpted or forged, and it hummed faintly. The third was almost entirely translucent, and of indeterminate hue, but this one was much more like what he was used to seeing. It seeped forward almost hesitantly, as though seeking a way through an already occupied space. If he hadn’t known better, he’d have said it was _new_.

All three seemed to fade or black out completely in places, and the interplay was halting, sporadic even, as though they were battling each other for supremacy.

Then he looked closer.   
  
Lost in the skirmishes between the three bands of magic was a _fourth_ \- but one so thin and gray that it was more or less hidden by every bright flash that occurred anytime one of the others tried to exert itself.  As he watched, he realized that the gray one wasn’t composed of magical force, but was rather the echo of where yet another band of magic had once flowed. It sagged and buckled, the deteriorating remains of what must have been incredible power.  
  
Pulling his mind out of the net of spells, Draco regarded the young man, stretched out motionless on the grass. He looked human, not much older than most of them had been when they’d finished at Hogwarts. His youth, at least, made him more resilient. Loki would heal, of that Draco was certain.

What he did not know is what Loki would become, if he were to return to his former strength.


	20. Respite

Hermione returned to the back garden of Number 12 just in time to see Sirius speaking reassuringly to Loki, while Harry and Draco walked back towards the house. Evidently, she had missed whatever procedure Draco had come here to perform. Shoulders squared, she marched straight up to the blond wizard and presented him with the jar containing the petrified cybernetic creature.  

Draco accepted it with a small nod, slipping the jar into a deep pocket in his robe. “I will see what this reveals, and inform you of the results,” he said—not to Hermione, of course, but to Harry.  “Your patient should recover; his magical core is intact, if a bit...unconventional,” he continued, face inscrutable. “Rest and food he should have in abundance, and moderate exercise as his body heals. When the accidental magic begins, owl me.”

Harry and Hermione exchanged a look.  
  
Draco’s eyebrow shot up. “Already?” he inquired. “Was it our kind of magic?”

Harry frowned briefly, then shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

Draco nodded thoughtfully. “He may display other kinds of magic. When it starts to be _familiar_ , owl me.”

Despite the vagueness of these instructions, Harry accepted them. “Thank you, Draco,” he replied, automatically extending his hand.

To Hermione’s everlasting surprise, Draco reached out just as automatically, shaking Harry’s hand firmly. “I’ll be in touch.” With that he turned quickly back towards the house, and disappeared inside, heading for the Floo.

“Well, that went well,” Sirius commented as he ambled up to where Harry and Hermione were standing on the porch. Harry’s mouth twitched in a half smile, but Hermione just shrugged.

“Loki will recover, that’s the main thing,” Harry said, laying a comforting hand on Hermione’s shoulder.

“I don’t like how evasive Draco was acting,” she said. “There is something he isn’t telling us.”  
  
“I know,” Harry agreed, “but if Ron trusts him, he must be good at what he does. That’s all I need, really.”

Hermione said nothing to that, but rather turned to look at Loki, who was still lying prone in the garden, head propped on the stone. “Make sure Loki has hope, Harry. I can’t pinpoint exactly why, but I believe he will need every bit he can muster.” Shaking her head as if to clear a thought, she sighed. “I’m going back inside. I need a bite to eat, and some time to think.”

Harry and Sirius watched her go, before making their way across the garden to where Loki was now sitting up, long arms crossed in front of him, elbows propped on his bony knees. He was staring vacantly ahead, and for the first time since he’d arrived at Grimmauld Place, Harry thought he looked more tired than ill. His face, still human-looking under the effects of the glamour charm, was drawn, but whether it was with tension or exhaustion was not clear.

“So, Loki,” Harry began, “from the looks of it, there is good news: you should make a full recovery.”

“You implied I had already performed magic, why?” Loki demanded.  
  


Harry dropped onto the chilly ground with a sigh. “Because,” he explained, “there have been times when you seemed to be exhibiting accidental magic.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me?” he muttered into his hands.

Sirius came and sat on the other side of him, and shot Harry a look of curiosity.  
  
“Because,” Harry admitted, “I wasn’t sure that’s what it was.  I’d never heard of a wizard throwing off waves of cold when he was angered.”  
  
At this, Loki’s shoulders slumped. “Oh, that,” he moaned, voice muffled by his arms. “That’s not magic. That’s just my... _heritage_.” The last word he spat out hatefully.

“I don’t believe you’ve mentioned this...heritage...before,” Harry said carefully. “Maybe if I knew more about it, it would help me recognize what’s magic and what isn’t.”  
  
“My blue form,” Loki said dully, “is because I was not born of Asgard. I was stolen as an infant and raised there, but I don’t...I didn’t belong there.”

“Where were you born?” Harry asked quietly.

Loki sat silent for a long while, until Harry and Sirius thought he had decided not to answer. When he did speak, his words were hollow and detached. “Long has Asgardr held a grudge against Jotunheimr, and rightly, for their king was slain there, his body never found. A new king, his son, came into power then, and his name was Odin. Odin took for himself a wife of Vanaheim, a woman comely and wise, and named her Queen. In time, Queen Frigga gave birth to a son, golden-haired with a shining countenance, and the child was the sum of their joy.

“In that happy time, the Jotnir began again to wage war against Asgardr, and Odin went in battle to confront their ruler, Laufey. The battle was won, and Laufey fled, leaving the Asgardians to depart with their slain. As they departed, Odin heard a sound that did not belong on a battlefield: the wail of a newly-born child.

“Through the snows of Jotunheimr, Odin followed the sound, until he came upon a bundle of rags, frail and sickly, whose cries had now diminished to a whimper. Scooping up the bundle, Odin was astonished to see a Jotunn child, smaller than it should have been, even smaller than his own child had been at his birth. Unable to slay such a pitiful thing, even out of mercy, Odin took the child home and gave it to Frigga as her own. The child was raised alongside the prince, to be his peer in all things.

“The child was never told of his birth, nor anything about him save the lie that he was their son, as much as the golden child was by birth, and a true heir to the throne of Asgardr.” With this, Loki fell silent once more.  
  
Harry and Sirius exchanged a look, before the latter gave the young man a gentle clap on the shoulder. Loki stiffened at the touch, but said nothing. “Oh, lad,” Sirius said, voice full of grim understanding, “nothing complicates life quite like family.”  
  
Loki’s eyes narrowed. “And what would you know about it?”  
  
Harry opened his mouth to protest, but Sirius beat him to it. “Me? I completely failed to be anything my family wanted of me. Had the audacity to sort into the wrong house at school. Spent all my time with Muggle-borns and blood traitors. Did absolutely nothing to uphold the mores and modes of the most Noble and Ancient House of Black,” he recited. “The litany of my crimes was a thing to behold, let me tell you. My dear departed mother, long may she rot, told me herself, many times. The only thing good enough for me was excommunication, although I’m sure some of my uncles and cousins would just as soon have had my head.”

At Harry’s wince, Sirius grimaced apologetically. “I suppose Bellatrix did manage to do that, in one version of events. At any rate, I’m lucky to be alive at all, and it took an act of divine intervention for me to outlive the people who hated me most in all the world. The only reason I stood to inherit at all was that my father held out some clearly insane hope that I’d be returned to the fold before he died. Which, of course, I didn’t, but he had the great foresight to perish before my mother, leaving me in place as heir, and her powerless to do anything about it. Not that I wanted anything to do with it all, but there you are.”

Loki said nothing, but the quality of his stare had changed, shifting from hard anger to something more contemplative, if a bit skeptical.  Harry, too, was watching him closely, though with considerably more surprise. “I’d always wondered how you’d been blasted from the family tree, but still managed to get the house,” he said after a moment’s pause.

“Pure-blood family tradition,” Sirius replied with a scowl. “As backward about women as it is about Muggle-borns. I didn’t get it for the longest time, but Lily set me straight as soon as she found out what most people expected of her, once she and James were engaged. You’ve never seen anyone so full of righteous fury,” he said, shaking his head in amazement, even after so many years.

“I wish I could have,” Harry muttered quietly.

“I know, pup,” Sirius commiserated. “I know.”

Loki watched this interchange without a word, but when the conversation had fallen into an apparently permanent lull, he quietly cleared his throat. “I believe,” he said, half to himself, “that I require nourishment. Perhaps,” he continued, almost looking at the pair of them, “perhaps we should retire indoors.”

Harry turned his attention to the young man, and a small almost-smile made a brief appearance on his face. “Of course,” he said, rising to his feet and offering a hand first to Sirius, who took it and stood, and then to Loki, who did not.

Sirius’s bark of laughter startled him enough that when the older man grabbed him by the forearms and hauled him bodily upwards, Loki didn’t have time to resist. “Come on,” Sirius chuckled, steering him back towards the house, “let’s go see what else we can find in the larder.”

When they made their way down to the kitchen, it was to find the table laden, yet again, this time with sandwiches in addition to pasties and biscuits leftover from the earlier meal. Ron had apparently arrived while they were outside, and helped himself to whatever the he could find. Hermione was seated at the far end of the table, hands warming on a cup of tea, obviously deep in thought.

As the three of them settled down around the table, Ron looked up from his plate, giving a rough nod towards the platters of food between them. “Tuck in,” he said between mouthfuls, “there’s plenty.” He eyed Hermione’s plate, as if to determine whether she’d actually eaten or just moved bits around, and sighed. “At least have something, Hermione,” he grumbled, half to himself. “Untouched tea isn’t going to sustain you, you know.”

“Sorry,” she replied automatically, lifting her fork to spear a bit of potato that was falling out of a half-eaten Cornish pasty. “I was thinking.”

“That I’ve come to expect,” he responded gruffly. He watched her carefully for a moment as the rest of them loaded their plates, nodding with satisfaction as soon as both she and Loki began eating in earnest.

The room was heavy with unspoken thoughts, enough to bother Harry. “What’s going on?” he asked, once it became clear that neither of them would bring up the topic by themselves.

“Mum,” Ron said tiredly, setting down his sandwich. “She’s been all out of sorts lately, and now she wants everyone home for the holidays. I think it’s too much for George to manage on his own, and I’m planning to help where I can, but…”

“...but she wants everything to be perfect,” Harry supplied, with a knowing sigh.

“Right,” Ron affirmed, “and George and I will be busy enough just managing Mum, without having to worry about the cooking and decorating and everything. And I hate to ask you, considering you have guests for the foreseeable future.”

“I’m sure I can do something,” Harry reassured him, “even if I can’t be there myself.”

“And why wouldn’t you go yourself?” Sirius queried defensively. “I would trust Molly to know I’m alive, and I know her—she would take Loki in just as readily as she did you.”

“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea,” Ron said.  “Since Dad died, she’s not been entirely right, you know. I’m afraid that something so unexpected would...cause problems.” Ron’s frown was skeptical, but his eyes were full of sorrow. “I don’t want to risk it.”

“It’s really that bad?” Sirius asked sympathetically. “Merlin, I hate to think of it. Molly was...well, so _solid_.” He scrubbed the back of his neck in consternation. “I don’t want to put you to any trouble, Ron—you or your family—but I have to confess, I’d rather be anywhere than this house during any holiday.”

“Would she recognize his Animagus form, Ron?” Harry inquired.

The red-headed man frowned in thought, rubbing his scruffy chin. “I’m not sure. She might. What she recognises is so unpredictable. She might be too busy to notice...then again, she might see it straightaway.”

The rest of the table sat for a moment in gloomy thought. Hermione, in the meanwhile, was looking back and forth between Loki and Sirius. “What if,” she hazarded, “you went in disguise, too, Sirius?”

The older wizard raised an eyebrow at her. “That is what we’re talking about, isn’t it?” he replied, working to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

“Loki is going to be wearing a glamour,” she explained. “Why couldn’t Snuffles wear one too?”

Sirius leaned back in his chair, giving the young witch a long look. “It’s possible,” he admitted, “thought I don’t think I could hold the enchantment myself. I was always good at Transfiguration, but working Charms on yourself is another matter entirely.”

“You wouldn’t have to,” Hermione replied. “I could do it.”

At this, Loki turned his full attention on the witch, the first time he’d done anything but sit passively by while everyone else spoke.

“Are you sure?” Sirius asked.

“It needn’t be too extensive,” she explained. “Just a small change would be enough to explain away any similarities, if Molly did start to recognise you.”

“Well,” Sirius nodded, “if that’s settled, then we can all be there to help you, Ron.” He caught everyone’s eye around the table, and no one seemed opposed. Loki gave a little shrug, Hermione simply nodded, and Harry looked relieved.

Ron gusted out a tired sigh. “We do have a few weeks, but it’s good to know how much help we’ll have.” He shot a grateful look at the four of them. “Thanks,” he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about that dreadfully long delay in posting Chapter 20. I had most of it written in May, but then work got ahead of me and so did parenting. Luckily, school is now back in session, so I should be back to a decently regular update schedule. 
> 
> Thank you for your patience, and I hope you enjoy!
> 
> ~Jo


	21. Outburst

 

The few weeks before Christmas passed by quickly. Harry spent most of each day at St. Mungo’s, checking on Loki’s progress in the morning before he left, and every evening upon his return. The young Asgardian was doing progressively better with each passing week, and it wasn’t long before he was positively chafing to get out of the house for more than just an hour or so at a time. He and Sirius, in his Animagus form, started taking walks, exploring the neighborhood, followed by other parts of London. By the time the holidays arrived, Loki knew his way around most of Central London. 

At Harry’s insistence, Hermione stayed with them at Grimmauld Place. Once it was clear that Loki’s restlessness was relieved by going about in the city, she returned to the Forest of Dean to pack up her camp, although she left the wards in place. She set up her study in a corner of the former Black family library, her large wooden desk perpetually cluttered with parchment. She never declared the place off-limits, but she kept the door firmly shut on outside goings-on while she was working--which was, with the exception of mealtimes, nearly every waking moment. No amount of prodding or wheedling by any of them had broken her of the habit of falling asleep in her favored armchair in the library. After about a week of this, both Harry and Sirius had barged in, transfiguring the second armchair into a reasonably comfortable sofa, letting her know in no uncertain terms that she was to get some real sleep on purpose from now on. With a watery smile, Hermione had hugged them both, and allowed them to persuade her to come down for a walk in the garden before tea. 

December had been relatively mild thus far, and although not warm enough for anything to really grow, the back garden was nevertheless a pleasant place to be. The only spot which regularly had frost was the large stone in the center, where Loki was usually to be found. On this particular afternoon he was sitting cross-legged in front of it, with his hands splayed out on the cold ground to either side. He made no move to get up or greet them, merely inclining his head slightly as the three of them passed by. 

“How is he doing?” Hermione asked both of them.

“Well enough, I think,” Harry replied. “He seems to have taken Malfoy’s recommendations to heart, at least. Sirius tells me he’s out here for most of the day, whenever they’re not out gallivanting through London.”

“Most of the night, too,” Sirius chimed in. “He thrives in the cold, or at least I hope that’s what’s happening. He certainly gets bluer out here, as you can see.”

“You know, I understand that’s what his birth species looks like,” Harry began, shaking his head, “but I can’t help but think of dragons when I look at him like this. And then when he’s wearing your glamour, Hermione, he looks almost human.”

“I know what you mean,” Hermione said. “There is something about his image of himself that is not quite human, but it is so close that you might not notice it unless you were looking.”

“Oh, people notice it,” Sirius said with a laugh. “You should see the way the Muggles trip over themselves when we’re out. I don’t know if they realize why, but there is something about him that disrupts their thinking, somehow. Though I’m certain some of it is simply those dashing good looks you give him, Hermione,” he finished with a wink in her direction.

Hermione shook her head. “He gives himself those looks,” she demurred. “I just recreate his memory of himself. And it’s not like he’s a Metamorphmagus, either--even when he used to cast his own glamours, I’m certain all he was doing was changing the appearance of his skin and hair. I can’t magic him to look like a different person other than who he is. If he’d been changing anything fundamental about his body or face, my spells wouldn’t have produced the result he was looking for.”

“Some people have all the luck then,” Sirius laughed once more. “Still, I think there’s something about Loki that puts people off balance. It’s not necessarily bad,” he explained, “but there is a definite effect when he walks in a room.”

At this, Harry frowned. “Do you think that will happen with magical folk as well?”

“Molly Weasley, you mean,” Hermione noted. 

“Yeah, mostly,” Harry agreed. “But I wonder, too, about other people as well. We don’t seem too affected by him, but is that just familiarity? Would he cause the same kind of stir in, say, Diagon Alley?”

Sirius grinned at the thought. “I have no idea, Harry,” he said simply, “but I’d love to find out.”

“As much fun as that would be,” Harry said with an answering smile, “we’d probably best wait on that. I’d much prefer to not unleash the entire Wizarding World on him at once. If other magical folk do react to him like the Muggles do, it might be a disservice to Loki to try that before he decides he’s ready.”

“Have it your own way,” Sirius responded with a playful pout. “But you’d best not forget to take me along when you do.”

Harry’s face broke out into a larger grin than Hermione had seen on it in some time. “Never,” he promised.

....

The last week before the holidays was punctuated by the arrival and departure of many visitors to Grimmauld Place. The first to arrive were Ginny and Luna, who returned from Holyhead immediately after the close of the Quidditch season. As soon as the final game was over--a particularly ferocious match which saw the Harpies narrowly defeat Puddlemere United--the two of them arrived by Floo shortly after supper on the night of the 17th, Ginny still clad in her dark green and gold Quidditch robes, Luna sporting an eagle-head hat that shrieked quite realistically and snapped at a conjured Snitch that was orbiting it. The frightful racket it made startled everyone at the table, but mercifully stopped as soon as Luna removed it from her head. 

Harry was the first to jump out of his chair, welcoming the both of them in. “We weren’t expecting you for days yet,” he said, before enveloping both young women in a hug. “You didn’t stay for the postgame party?”

Ginny grinned ruefully. “No party this time,” she said with a hint of mischief. “The game was so close, there was no getting past the press. It was a mob!” she exclaimed, flopping down into one of the two chairs Sirius had pulled out from the table for them, while Luna took the seat next to hers. “Between the correspondents from the  _ Prophet _ , the  _ Holyhead Herald _ and  _ Witch Weekly _ , they wouldn’t let Jones go, or Chang, for that matter, before they’d wrung the entire story out of them both. It was a madhouse. I’m not sure what kind of move she executed to catch the Snitch, practically out of the hands of Puddlemere’s Seeker, but I’m fairly certain they’ll be naming it after her.” Ginny only paused to take a long draught of the tea Harry had placed in front of her. “Seriously, Harry, you should have seen it. You’d have been proud of Cho, it was an amazing play. We lowly Chasers and Beaters just looked at each other and went out the back way while they were distracted with our poor Seeker and Captain. Trust me, if we’d have stayed in Holyhead tonight, the press would have been on our doorsteps next.” 

“Besides,” Luna said simply, “the  _ Quibbler _ is going to run an exclusive, first-hand account of the match for our readers. We had to get that to press as soon as possible.” 

“It was as good an excuse as any,” Ginny grinned, turning to give Luna a kiss. The tiny blonde witch flushed a delicate shade of pink, and leaned into Ginny’s side.

“No matter the reason, it’s good to see you both,” Harry said. “Will you be staying here, then?”

“That would be lovely, Harry, thank you,” Luna replied for them both. 

“We’ll be helping out at the Burrow as much as we can, but we don’t want to cause any more work for George than necessary,” Ginny confirmed. “He’s had a hard enough time of it without having to air out my old bedroom for us. And between you and me, Harry,” she continued, leaning in conspiratorially, “the accommodations here are just a bit better suited to us now.”

Harry nodded in understanding. “Molly still not quite accepting that you’re a couple, is it?”

“It’s more that she doesn’t remember we’re together,” Ginny said with a rueful smile, “but that’s the effect of it. It’s not that she’s angry or disappointed, just confused. I think she sometimes still thinks I should be marrying you, Harry.”

Harry sighed, but nodded once more. “She had that in her mind for a long time,” he said sadly. “It’s not surprising that assumption is still around.”

Across the table from this conversation, another silent one was taking place between Sirius, Hermione and Loki. The tall young man had been acting moody again over the last few days, and the sudden and cacophonous appearance of the two witches had set him on edge. Sirius was doing his best to calm him, while Hermione was gently encouraging him to resume his meal. 

Getting Loki to eat was sometimes as much of a trial as convincing Hermione to sleep in a bed. Between the two of them, Hermione and Sirius had practically developed their own sign language in order to coordinate their efforts to help the young man. They took turns either openly encouraging him, or setting an example and letting him join in. Most of the time, their technique worked.

Ginny moved to take another sip of her tea and yelped. Tea, cup, saucer and all were frozen to the table, cemented to the wooden surface by a thick rime of frost.  She stared at her cup, puzzled, while Harry quietly retrieved his wand from his sleeve, casting a warming charm over all. 

Hermione emitted a long sigh from the other side of the table, and Sirius gave the three sitting across from them a helpless shrug. Loki just sat in sullen silence with his arms folded across his chest. 

“Accidental magic?” Ginny asked, looking to Hermione for an explanation. 

“ _ No _ ,” Loki glowered, speaking for the first time this evening. 

“You did that purposefully?” Sirius interjected. “That’s wonderful news, lad!”

“ _ It is not magic _ !” Loki shouted back, odd harmonics echoing into the stunned silence that followed. Harry and Sirius shared a significant look, and Ginny’s eyebrows shot up. Even Hermione was sufficiently taken aback that she didn’t speak, although her mind was racing with arguments.

Luna, meanwhile, stirred her newly thawed tea before sipping it carefully, as though it were hot. “I understand why you would think that,” she said, “but you are quite wrong about it, you know.”

Loki shot her a lethal scowl. “And why, pray tell,” he hissed, “would that be?”

“It is part of your true form, of course,” Luna explained, shaking her head as if Loki were a child playing some silly game. “You are a magical being, therefore the cold was a product of your magic.”

At this pronouncement, Hermione’s eyes lit up. “Of course!” she exclaimed. “Of your body and your magic, your body heals first, so the first magic you’d display would be of the type most associated with your physical form--that which you were born to have, at it were!” The missing connection now made, Hermione’s thoughts whirled through her mind, speeding towards a solution to the problem that she had been worrying at for weeks. “That’s what Malfoy was hinting at! Oh, that utter prat! He could have just told us, that...that...little  _ weasel _ .”

“ODIN’S MISSING ORB, JUST SHUT UP!” Loki thundered, and every piece of china on the table exploded. 

Luna was left holding only the circle of porcelain that had once been the handle on her now completely pulverised teacup, her face covered in fine, white dust. Without so much as a blink, she turned to Loki, and looked him straight in the eye. 

“Now that was accidental magic,” she pronounced, and, just as calmly as you please, she summoned the teapot and several mugs from the kitchen and began pouring everyone a subsequent cup of tea.

It was Loki’s turn to be dumbfounded. He kept looking from Luna to the mess on the table to Hermione and back again. “I…” he stuttered, too surprised for anything but candor, “ _ I _ did that?”

“Yep,” Harry said, still somewhat bemused. “That was...definitely familiar.”

“Well,” Hermione said as she stood with a heavy sigh, “it appears I have a letter to write.” 

“No,” Harry insisted, at the same time that Sirius set a gentle hand on her shoulder. “It’s mine to do, Hermione. That way, only I have to deal with the prat,” he said with a wink.

“Oh, by all means, deal with the prat,” Hermione said sardonically, although she also winked at him. “I’ll just clean up the mess, shall I?”

“Hermione, my dear, don’t even think of it,” Sirius interjected. “You, I believe, have some considerable thinking to do. If you waste time with cleaning up after this long lout, you’ll never get it worked through tonight. Go,” he insisted, ushering her towards the stairs. “I can clean this up well enough.”

“And I suppose we should get ourselves cleaned up?” Ginny said dryly, although her eyes had not once left Loki’s since the cup had shattered in Luna’s hand. “I suppose our room hasn’t moved, has it?” she asked Harry.  His quick nod was all the answer she needed. In a moment she had maneuvered Luna out of her seat, and was gently but efficiently steering her out of the kitchen after Harry and Hermione.

As she passed by Loki, Ginny paused. “If you ever do anything like that to her on purpose,” she growled, “I will hex you until you forget your own name, is that clear?” Then without another word, the redheaded witch spun on her heel and marched up the stairs. 

Loki stood perfectly still for a moment, eyes only shifting over to meet Sirius’s. “Oh yes,” the older man confirmed. “She’s quite serious. And if there’s anything that woman can do well, it’s hex.”

At that, Sirius turned and trotted into the kitchen, returning with a handful of cleaning cloths and a dustpan. “Here,” he said, thrusting a cloth into Loki’s unprotesting hand, “we’ll have to do this the Muggle way for now.” At Loki’s confused expression, Sirius grimaced. “I didn’t want to remind Hermione that I don’t have a wand. I taught myself to do a few spells wandlessly, but oddly enough,  _ Evanesco _ was never a high priority.” 

Without another word Sirius bent to his work, leaving Loki to his own thoughts. It wasn’t long before the now puzzled young man, too, began wiping up the mess his magic had made.


	22. Gathering

**Chapter 22:** **Gathering**

The houses at Grimmauld Place became positively crowded in the days leading up to Christmas. Neville dropped by more than once, usually with something of Scandinavian origin, either potions ingredients for Hermione or actual food for Loki. The young Asgardian had accepted these unprompted gifts with skepticism at first, but after the third or fourth offering, Loki acted a bit more at ease. Loki’s reception was never warm, but it was clear that Neville’s casual, unassuming manner put him a bit more at ease. 

Neville eventually yielded to Harry’s offer of hospitality over the holiday itself. He still came and went up until the morning of Christmas Eve, but he was on hand more often than not, save for the one or two trips home he made to attend to his greenhouse. When he learned of Harry and Co.’s plans for Christmas Day, he nodded in solemn understanding, before declining the unspoken invitation. Neville sent Molly his best wishes, but he would be spending most of the day at St. Mungo’s. 

Ron, as well, came to stay at Grimmauld Place about four days before Christmas, returning with Ginny and Luna on their first day out to help get the Burrow in order for company. With his arrival, all the bedrooms at Number 12 were fully occupied, and Harry had to extend the kitchen table a bit to accommodate everyone at meals. 

So it was that the day before the Christmas holidays dawned, to find most of the household gathered around the breakfast table in the kitchen. The board was piled with all manner of fare, from homey beans and toast to delicate pastries dusted with icing sugar and candied violets. It was as welcoming a feast as was ever served at Hogwarts. 

Even those more used to rising late were found at table, nursing a mug of tea, coffee or hot chocolate. Of all those in the house, only Loki had yet to make an appearance, although Harry and Sirius both suspected he was in the back garden again.

“I imagine there’s frost out this morning,” Neville said worriedly. “Do we need to call him in?”

“He likes the cold, that one,” Sirius said amiably. “Still, I’ll retrieve him, since he needs to eat as much as we do. Save a bit of that lox back for him, would you?”

“I have done already,” Neville said with a grin. “He never says much about it, but it seems to agree with him.”

“That it does,” Sirius nodded. “I’m guessing it’s his favorite, though he’d never admit to such a thing.” With that, Sirius ambled up the stairs and out the door. 

The back garden was, indeed, covered with a thick rime of frost. It had, as Sirius had expected, fallen most heavily in the center of the garden, around Loki’s habitual resting place. The crust of it looked almost like snow, especially in contrast to his black hair and horns. Hermione’s glamour must have worn off in the night. Sirius had no idea how often she renewed it, so give the young man his Asgardian guise, but he knew she was holding it longer than he would have been able.

As if on cue, Sirius felt a gentle tap on his shoulder, and he turned to see the dark-haired witch behind him. “Still asleep?” she asked, although Sirius imagined she knew as well as he did. 

“To all appearances,” he replied. “Should I wake him?”

“Let me work the glamour first,” she said. “He’s used to me renewing it in the mornings, now.”

Without a word, she lifted her wand, and a gentle beam of golden light flew from it, cascading over Loki’s prone figure. As his form changed, the air around it warmed, melting the minuscule ice crystals into dew, which evaporated.

At this, Loki stirred, sitting up and stretching, as though out of deep sleep. Without another word, Hermione retreated inside, leaving Sirius alone with him. 

“Well,” he said, clapping his hands together, “how about some breakfast before our outing?”

Loki turned halfway around where he sat, pinning Sirius with a quizzical look. “To the park again, then?”

“I had another idea in mind, if you’re up to it,” Sirius replied. “Something a bit more special, I think. Come in to breakfast and we can discuss it with the others.” Loki nodded his acquiescence, and rose to follow Sirius back into the house.

When they arrived downstairs, the meal was still in full swing. As soon as he saw them arrive,  Harry rose from his seat and ducked into the kitchen, retrieving a laden platter, which he presented to Loki with a flourish. “We saved this for you,” Harry said, setting down a tray piled high with smoked salmon, squares of dark brown bread, slices of fresh cucumber, a few sprigs of dill, and a small mound of white cheese. These all were arranged to one side, and on the other was a small pot of baked pudding, covered with fresh berries. Loki’s eyes widened at the feast set before him, then scowled as he compared this with everyone else’s plates. “Why do not you all have this as well?” he asked with a hint of suspicion.

“Because,” Ron said, only just swallowing a mouthful of beans on toast, “it’s Christmas.”

Loki’s expression mellowed into simple confusion, but Harry explained. “It’s a winter festival. Gift-giving and feasting, mostly. So, Happy Christmas.”

“You might call it  _ jól _ ,” Hermione piped up from behind her teacup.

“The solstice has already passed,” Loki argued, “and feasting does not prepare one for the Wild Hunt.”

“The Wild-” Ron began, but Hermione interrupted him.

“Traditions have changed since your people were last here,” she explained. “Now we celebrate time together with family, especially by having meals with our favorite foods.”

Something still irked the young man, but Loki dropped the subject with a curt nod. “Thank you,” he said into his plate, “for this gift.”

Sirius, who had been silent all this time, grinned broadly. “Oh, this is just breakfast,” he said, clapping Loki on the shoulder. “ _Gifts_ we’ll have tomorrow. And speaking of gifts,” he continued, turning to address the rest of the table, “I believe some shopping is in order.”

“It is, indeed,” Harry said, eyes twinkling. “I haven’t done mine yet, so I may as well go with you.”

“We haven’t, either,” Ginny said, indicating Luna and herself, “and I’m doubting Ron has had the time, have you Ron?” Her brother shook his head in confirmation.

“We could make a day of it,” Neville suggested. “I have some things already, but I still need to pick up some things for Mum and Dad.”

“Well?” Harry asked, making eye contact with Hermione in particular.

“Yes, I can be dragged away from my research, Harry,” she said with a wry smile. 

“Excellent!” Harry exclaimed. “What about you, Loki?”

The young man had fallen quiet again, subdued in contrast to the excitement around him, but he gave a slight nod just the same. “Good,” Sirius nodded. “And I suppose this would be an excellent chance to test out your simultaneous glamour charm idea?” he asked Hermione. 

“Certainly,” she agreed. “Come up with me to the library, while everyone else is getting themselves together.”

In less than a hour they were all ready to go, and the group of them made their way out of the front door of Number 13 and into the streets of Muggle London. It was promising to be a long day, so they divided up into groups, deciding to meet at the Leaky Cauldron for luncheon before heading into the Alley. Harry stopped at a Muggle cash machine to provide them all with the right currency before they all headed on their way: Luna, Harry and Neville went off together into a department store, while Ginny and Ron headed for a sporting goods store, leaving Hermione with Loki and a well-glamoured Snuffles. His unusual silver-blue eyes were now a more nondescript warm brown, and his normally shaggy fur was shorter and more even, more like a German shepherd’s. 

The three of them wended their way through a maze of streets, until they reached an open-air market. Colorful star-shaped lights hung from the eaves of little wooden buildings, surrounded by tables piled with a variety of fabrics, jars, and figurines. They wandered through in relative silence, Hermione mostly lost in thought, Loki running his hands over the wares as he passed them. Sirius occasionally sniffed at one thing or another, never straying from Loki’s side.

As they loitered in front of a booth selling a variety of jams and preserves, a loud voice interrupted both of their musings. “Now, what can I help you find today?” Loki looked up to see a rather large woman, graying blonde hair pulled back into a kerchief of some sort, face ruddy from the cold. “Something sweet for your sweetheart?”

Loki frowned in confusion. “Sweet…” he began, but then caught the direction of the woman’s gaze. “I have no-”

“Do you have anything in summer fruits?” Hermione interjected, claiming all the shopwoman’s attention. “Only my mum, she loves them, and she’s not been well. It would cheer her up ever so much.” 

This sent the two women bustling off, leaving Loki staring at Snuffles’ ridiculous canine grin. “Not one word,” he hissed. The dog just looked at him more intently and tossed his head at him. Even in his Animagus form, the man was positively cheeky.

Hermione returned shortly thereafter, in possession of a small paper sack full of an assortment of miniature jars. Loki was resolutely ignoring Sirius, and he made no effort to acknowledge Hermione’s return. 

“It wasn’t strictly a lie, you know,” she said casually. “Molly really does love everything to do with summer, and she unofficially adopted all of us long ago.” Loki idly ran his hands over a row of thick woollen scarves, but said nothing.

Hermione let out a small sigh. “The shopkeeper meant well. People, well...they make assumptions. It makes no logical sense, I agree. But we are two people doing our Christmas shopping together, and so that’s what they think.” Sirius gave a muffled bark, and pranced out to the end of his leash and back. “ _ And _ we have a dog,” Hermione chuckled, in spite of Loki’s sour mood. “That must mean we are in quite a serious relationship.” 

At this, Loki finally turned to look at her, and nodded his understanding. “In Asgard,” he admitted, “there are many in the court who take special delight in jumping to such conclusions.”

For the first time in Loki’s hearing, Hermione laughed aloud. “And congratulate themselves on their perspicacity, no doubt!”

“Precisely,” Loki nodded, and found himself nearly smiling as well. 

* * *

By the time they arrived at the Leaky Cauldron, Hermione had found several more gifts at the market, and every one of them had been slipped into the small beaded bag she wore on her wrist. Loki wondered briefly if these mages had the ability to create pockets in space, and how similar the method was to how he had discovered and opened the pathways between the realms. These ruminations were interrupted by the arrival of the rest of their party. Both meal (hearty) and conversation (enthusiastic) followed, and soon they were parading out through the back door of the dingy little establishment.

When they emerged into a bricked-up alleyway, Loki frowned. “I haven’t taken a wrong turn,” Harry said preemptively, giving Loki a mischievous grin. “This,” he whispered, leaning in conspiratorially, “is the best bit.” Giving his wand a quick flourish, he began tapping out a pattern in the bricks. The stones began to roll back upon themselves, revealing a relatively busy street.

Harry stepped aside, ushering the others through before him. “Welcome to Diagon Alley,” he said with a wink in Loki’s direction. Snuffles barked happily and darted forward, pulling the tall young man behind him. 

Hermione, bringing up the rear, caught Harry’s gaze, and rolled her eyes. “You never tire of it, do you?”

“Never,” he grinned.

This place, Loki considered, was definitely different from the parts of London he had been coming to know. For one thing, magic was so thick here, the air practically vibrated. Astonishing, too, was the sheer number of Midgardian mages living and working under the noses of the rest of the world. 

Their party went together in a group now, first to the imposing edifice that was the wizarding bank (which was run and guarded by creatures that looked suspiciously like stunted _svartálfar_ ), then on to a variety of shops. After a break for a bottle of something called butterbeer, which was terribly sweet but not unpleasant, the seven of them (plus one dog-shaped Animagus) took stock of what they had accomplished. 

“I would like to make one more stop,” Harry said, with a meaningful glance at Loki. “There’s an old friend I need to drop in and see.” 

“I’ll stay here, if you don’t mind,” Ron said. “I’ve got to get a letter off to Bill before we leave today, to make sure Charlie’s arrived.” 

“I should like to see him, too,” Luna said airily, “but it’s not the right time for our reunion.” 

“Besides,” Ginny added with a smirk, “we have gifts to wrap, so you lot can go somewhere else while we do.” 

Neville said his goodbyes then, and Harry and Hermione waved to all of them, and set off for their destination, Loki and Sirius in tow.

When they got to their destination, Loki looked up at the shopfront, unimpressed. The exterior was brown, and the windows a bit grimy, but Harry looked as pleased as if he were in front of a display of precious gems.

The shop inside was every bit as dingy as the outside, and completely cluttered: small, narrow boxes lined every wall, even going so far as to litter the floor in places. There was barely room for two of them to stand, let alone three, so Hermione volunteered to step outside to wait for them. Out from behind a particularly unstable stack of them stepped a wizened little man with a halo of fluffy white hair, who blinked owlishly at them from behind tarnished silver spectacles. 

“As I live and breathe,” the old man said, voice gravelly with age, “if it isn’t Mr. Potter. Eleven inches, holly and phoenix feather, nice and supple. An unusual wand for an unusual wizard, if I recall. The replacement is functioning properly, I trust?” the old man smiled.

“Perfectly well, thank you, Mr. Ollivander,” Harry said promptly. “I’m not in need of a wand this time, sir. I have a friend, though...” he trailed off, indicating Loki.

Mr. Ollivander squinted up through his glasses at the towering Jotunn, blinking slowly several times as he spoke. “Yes, well,” he began, taking his spectacles off for a polish before perching them once more on his nose, “this is quite unusual...quite unusual, indeed.” At this he began pacing around Loki, removing his glasses every so often and squinting at him, from every angle.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Potter,” he said at length, “but your friend is not yet ready for a wand. Whatever has happened to you, young man,” he continued, turning a baleful eye on Loki, “you are not yet strong enough to wield a wand safely.”

“Do you think he will, Mr. Ollivander?” Harry asked, suddenly sounding much more like boy he used to be. “Recover, I mean?”

“That I leave to _your_ expertise, Mr. Potter,” Mr. Ollivander said simply. “But as to how his magic will develop, I will say this: Until your young friend regains himself totally, it will be no use attempting to pair him with a wand. It is impossible to know what changes will be wrought in him before the process is complete. Until he is fully who he is to be, his wand will not know him.”

Harry nodded, in acquiescence if not understanding, and started to thank the man for his time, but Mr. Ollivander held up a wrinkled hand to stop him. “I could do something for that other friend of yours, if you like.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry said, giving the old man a considering look, “what friend?”

Mr. Ollivander’s face was grave. “I remember every wand I’ve ever sold,” he said sternly, “and the  _ wizard _ I’ve sold it to.” He quirked an eyebrow and nodded towards the large black dog sitting just behind Loki’s legs. “I do not know how you come to be again among the living, Mr. Black, but I believe you may once again benefit from my services.”

Harry and Loki exchanged a wary look, but before either had a chance to speak, Sirius was stepping out from behind a tower of boxes, straightening his clothes. “I don’t know how you spotted me, Mr. Ollivander, but you are absolutely correct.”

“You mean to say you’ve been without a wand all this time?” Harry exclaimed, aghast.

Sirius had the decency to look sheepish. “I didn’t want to trouble you, pup,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “You had enough to tend to without worrying about such a trifle.”

“Well,” Harry shot back, crossing his arms with a mock glare, “that trifle is going to be your Christmas present.”

Sirius shrugged, but nodded this thanks. “I see I can’t talk you out of it,” he admitted with a hint of a smile. Turning to Mr. Ollivander, he said, “Shall we?”

It was an extraordinary process, to be sure. Loki watched carefully as the grizzled old fellow set a small device to taking various measurements of Sirius’s body. When it was done, the man darted to and fro, much faster than Loki would have thought possible for a mortal of such an advanced age, retrieving boxes from ever higher shelves, while Sirius took the proffered wands in hand and attempted to cast spell after spell with them. They were simple enough tools: a wooden wand with some magical element at the core, of varying lengths and degrees of flexibility. In the end, Sirius left the shop with a  _ Cornus sanguinea, phoenix feather core, 13-¾ inches, flexible. _ With it, Sirius, had transformed again into his Animagus form, and Harry had stepped out to usher Hermione in, so she could reapply the glamour. 

“I wondered what had happened, when I felt it lift,” she said, taking in the story. “Mr. Ollivander’s full of surprises, isn’t he?”

“Very,” Harry agreed, and Loki nodded as well. “Still,” he said with a small frown, “that leaves me at a loss as to Loki’s gift.”

“Don’t trouble yourself,” the young Asgardian said, quickly. “I…have not procured gifts myself. There is no need.”

“We’ll go wander around the pet shops,” Hermione supplied. “I want to get Ron a new owl, anyway.”

“Splendid,” Harry said. “I’ll see you three back at the Leaky Cauldron.”

* * *

 

Hermione and Loki made their way, along with Snuffles, to the north side of the Alley. Ron’s new owl was found and purchased quickly, with arrangements to pick it up on Christmas morning.

To fill the time, the three of them visited two other shops. The first was a dank, foul-looking place, full of toads and other assorted amphibious creatures, the smell of which sent Loki darting back out the door within moments. Hermione and Snuffles soon followed, and they went in one final shop, the Magical Menagerie, so Hermione could pick up some treats for Crookshanks. Loki wandered around aimlessly while she spoke with the woman behind the counter, Snuffles trotting along behind him. 

There were all manner of odd creatures for purchase there, from perfectly normal-looking animals—mostly cats, rats and toads—to some that were downright strange. Next to a bowl of what looked to be purring balls of fur, there was a fat white rabbit which transformed into a glossy black hat, seemingly at random. There were other creatures which resembled the more obviously domestic cats which had a much more ferocious look about them, and their ears were longer and more pointed. These seemed much less intimidated by the presence of the large black dog than the cats, a point Loki considered to be in their favor.

Further down that aisle, he spotted a number of large wire cages, and curiously, he went to take a look. There were birds here as well, including a few owls like they had seen at Eeylops. There was one other variety Loki that recognized: there, in an ornate silver cage, stood a pair of large ravens, with thick black beaks and black feathers gleaming an oily purple-green in the lamplight. They eyed him, almost thoughtfully, in utter silence. A shudder ran through Loki at the sight, and he turned towards other things, although he did not entirely let them out of his range of vision. 

They were idling in front of a tank containing a massive purple toad when Loki felt a tap on his shoulder. “I’m finished,” Hermione said brightly. “See anything you like?” 

Loki shook his head mutely, although his eyes darted over to the ravens once more. The blasted birds were _still_ watching him.

“Well then,” she said, face carefully neutral, “we’d best be off to meet the others.” 

In very few minutes, the three of them had returned to the Leaky Cauldron, and from there it was merely a quick Floo-trip home to Number 12 Grimmauld Place. The mode of transport was not unlike traveling by Bifrost, Loki mused as he stepped out of the fireplace and dusted himself off. The others had disappeared into their various rooms, ostensibly to prevent the others from seeing their gifts. Loki was somewhat relieved to not be a part of this unfamiliar ritual, although something tightened in his chest when he thought about it too long. No one made a fuss about it, however, and by the time everyone went to bed that night, Loki considered himself to be well out of the entire ordeal.


End file.
